


Into the Light of the Dark Black Night

by dugindeep (hotsauce)



Category: CW Network RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Future, Chicago (City), M/M, Wingfic, winged!Jensen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-07
Updated: 2014-07-07
Packaged: 2018-02-07 21:23:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 31,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1914321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotsauce/pseuds/dugindeep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
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    <p>In the twenty-second century, Chicago still stands as the Second City, but much of it has crumbled under the weight of a changed world. Failed industries and a changing climate have led to ruin, and half the city—and Earth—is not what was once promised: a strong, sustainable future.</p>
    <p>Jared has been consumed with knowing all he could about the Black Falcon for years, and is fascinated by the winged creature that once stood as the city’s saving grace. On a stormy night, Jared is spared from death by who he swears is the Black Falcon, and is spurred to track him down. There’s more to the Falcon’s story, and Jared finds himself in greater trouble than a tragic car wreck. Jared’s modern fairytale unravels on a dark and dirty backdrop, but there’s still a damsel in distress and a hero who will need saving.</p>
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	Into the Light of the Dark Black Night

**Author's Note:**

> Written for 2014. Title from The Beatles' _Blackbird_.

**PART ONE**

As chronicled in a number of history books, the world catapulted itself into a technological revolution from the nineteenth to the twentieth century. Where engines powered by shoveled coal once carried travelers up and down the East Coast, they could now swing from country to country on luxury jets and surf the web from any corner of the world. Life had changed for the better, and each decade proved progress in economic, social, and environmental possibilities. Once the calendar turned over to the 2000s, people thought their capabilities were limitless.

Until the second industrial revolution transformed how businesses created goods. In the mid-2000s, 3-D print shops sprung up in every nook and cranny with increased tax benefits thanks to pork-barrel-filled legislation passed through Washington on the heels of job creation initiatives. The upside was increased goods production and fewer instances of importing cheaply made DVD players or sedans, not to mention a plummeting unemployment rate. The ultimate downside, and the undoing of the last half of twenty-first century, was lax environmental regulations on these industries and the resulting pollution. 

The air filled with sooty particulates and rivers stained with chemical discharges and sewage effluent. At the base, there were answers to these problems, but society could only move so fast to reconcile them all. And so the world slowly slid backwards into its early years, where people no longer saw the future a hundred years in the waiting, but simply dealt with the very hour in which they were living. 

Mankind changed, for certain. Gone were the many pleasantries and social graces. Dwindled were the charitable functions of helping your neighbor or giving a dog a home. Every man for himself, and each woman, too. Many turned a blind eye to what the failure of industry had done to them all. It made them hopeless.

Weather worsened over time, as increased pollution and general malaise about protecting the environment grew. Industry took precedence over global climate change, and the public responded better to the increase in jobs and technology. But the rain fell harder and faster with the ground unable to absorb all that water, and the infrastructure crumbling under the weight of unforeseen floods. Snow packed up a foot at a time, alternating with negative temperatures that froze the earth and cracked roads and bridges. Summer heat attacked with a vengeance, an inverse to frozen winters, glaciers melted in the Artic, and grass refused grow in the dry air. Long gone were parks and greenways to dress up the neighborhoods, and weak streets and sidewalks made it difficult to travel.

Technology essentially stood still, and the industry that was running before the destructive legislation continued to churn out goods every day. Progress, however, was packed away in a back closet until the dark world could be scrubbed and polished anew. 

It wasn’t the world we all once knew, but it was the only one Jared knew.

Jared runs his thumb along the edge of his pocket tablet, highlighting the border around the news story on the tiny screen. He ignores the noises of his friends in his living room just ten feet away, and sends the link’s thumbnail up onto the compu-screen that takes up half the wall. The screen flickers with the new addition, other thumbnails shuffling along the grid to make room and sorting themselves alphabetically. A few steps back, he admires the new story’s placement among a dozen others, all detailing the same subject, but this title stands out.

**Black Falcon Terrorizes Mall, Evades Police**

A small smile crosses Jared’s face, even while there’s a small bit of unrest in his chest. Nearly fifteen articles about the press-titled Black Falcon cover the wall just beyond his dining room table, and he imagines all of the stories that float in between every moment the _Daily Chronicle_ has recorded.

He doesn’t believe in the terror element. He doesn’t believe that the _Chronicle_ can manage a positive story about anything in this City. And so he believes the Black Falcon is a misunderstood creature with a dirty streak that the community latches onto. 

Yes, there is something unsettling about the winged man who dares to appear and reappear at a moment’s notice, even when so many cry his name in fear. Yes, Jared has scrapbooked every printed story about the Black Falcon to his wall and knows all the good and the bad. No, Jared is not afraid. 

Jared is fascinated with the man in black and how the very mention of his name strikes dread in everyone he knows. There’s a bit of delight in going against others’ anxieties.

He wonders where the Black Falcon lives, where he came from and who his family is, who he knows and loves, what he eats, his real name, how he sleeps with those wings molded to his back, and if he’s really as dangerous as all the printed words claim he is.

Jared still doesn’t think the last is true. He likes to imagine this heavenly creature floating through the night, keeping a look out for all those on the ground, and needing the city to live and breathe another day.

Just as his mind wanders down that path, the one that admires all of the Black Falcon’s grace and power, the sounds from the living room roar in his ears like a movie coming off pause with voices fighting to gain control of the plot.

“Jesus, Jay, how many of those things you gonna collect?”

“Leave him alone. It’s not that bad of a hobby.”

“It’s a pretty sad one. I mean, _The Black Falcon_? C’mon now. That guy’s just a troll trying to tear down our city.”

“Maybe he doesn’t have the best reputation, but a little hero worship never hurt anyone.”

“It’s hurting Jay’s social life.”

There’s a laugh and a sizeable drop in the defense, and the conversation continues on without Jared’s input. “I don’t think it’s this that’s hurting it. Maybe something else.”

“It’s weird, and freaky, to be this hooked to a bird.”

“It’s just a harmless crush.”

“How harmless with his track record of ruining this city?”

Chad and Sophia bicker back and forth like any other day and Jared frowns when he faces his friends. Genevieve and Aldis watch him like they’re behind Chad’s constant declarations that Jared needs to make a pit stop at the psychiatric ward to cure him of this obsession.

Jared doesn’t think it’s an obsession. It’s an interest, a hobby, a curious notion gathering in the back of his mind that the Black Falcon is more than just a man with wings, but a hero waiting to be revealed. Sure, the Black Falcon has some dim marks on his resume, a few too many run-ins with the cops trying to reel him in and stop the chaos that surrounds his every appearance. But that doesn’t make him a terrible person, right?

Instead of feeding the judgments tossed around the room, Jared heads to the kitchen and calls out, “Anyone need another beer?”

With his friends’ replies, he loads his arms with half a dozen beers and joins them around the couch to start up the latest slasher flick that’s gone straight to OnDemand. He resolutely ignores the finger that itches to turn on the nightly news for another glimpse of the Black Falcon taking flight during rush hour.

As the story on screen unfolds, Jared’s mind wanders back to the Black Falcon and murky nights and shadows covering empty alleys. The first blonde bombshell is taken out of the movie with a nasty neck wound, and the Black Falcon and Jared’s research unroll in his mind like a summer blockbuster. 

Jared still remembers the stories from his grandparents, how the world was at a standstill due to unsustainable infrastructure and unstable industries. The economy crumbled just as many buildings all around them became little more than crushed brick and mortar. As politics tore apart the American sensibility, and families holed up like the third World War was upon them, an unlikely superhero swooped onto the scene. 

It was the mid-2110s, with most of Chicago abandoned like the very Gotham City it once portrayed on the big screen, when the Black Falcon made his first public declaration that all was not lost and good would persevere. He saved a construction worker that day, one who had nearly tripped off of scaffolding a dozen stories from the ground. Weeks later, it was a working woman with a heel stuck in the at-grade crossing and a train heading her way. As his character grew, the Black Falcon knocked the Mayor away from a scope’s target and helped police secure the assassin mid-escape. 

For nearly a decade, his real persona, his real name and background, remained a mystery. The savior with a twelve-foot wingspan always escaped to his own fortress where no one could follow, and little was known beyond the shape of his crouch and the width and breadth of his reach. The only reason he was branded the Black Falcon was from his first run-in with a four-year-old daughter, who was stretching her hands as far as she could and crying out for her kitten in the tree. After the hero swept in to gather the kitten in his arms and gracefully dropped down next to the girl to return her pet, she cried out, “The birdy saved Mittens!” and wrapped her arms around his legs, unable to part for some time. Certainly, a superhero needed a more dignified name, and so the _Chronicle_ heralded the Black Falcon, always seen in black slacks and a black jacket, for his good deed.

Goodwill followed the Black Falcon after each of his appearances, even when he constantly strayed from public attention. He simply popped in at the perfect time to stop major havoc, save the resident in distress, and fly off into the clouds to avoid being tracked. 

In due time, the _Chronicle_ questioned the Black Falcon’s real resources and life-saving opportunities. Suspicions arose that the Black Falcon was behind much of the chaos and depression winding through the City, and then capitalized on the distress of his fellow residents. This led to the _Chronicle_ closely monitoring all of the Black Falcon’s activities and ultimately to the fall of the unknown, winged hero into disgrace. 

More specifically, the Black Falcon was prepared to head-off a bank robbery when a _Chronicle_ reporter intercepted him en route and caused another incident just north of Lake and Wacker Drive. The sun was just setting and glaring off the glass buildings to the east, not to mention bouncing off the Chicago River. The Black Falcon flew up about thirty feet, drawing his massive wings back and unknowingly encouraging the _Chronicle_ to snap myriad photos at his exit, which then prompted a young mother of three to be distracted, belatedly hitting the brakes and driving right into a moving intersection. It was the very first time reports turned for the worse, but certainly not the last.

In a matter of slow-motion seconds at the bottom of the Dearborn Bridge, the Black Falcon’s fanfare and popularity quickly disintegrated with the death of two of those children. Even as a few die-hard fans would maintain the Black Falcon’s innocence and pointed fingers at the _Chronicle_ ’s neediness for ‘the next big story’, the Black Falcon’s appearances throughout the city dwindled over time. The _Chronicle_ still continued to cover his every move, for the sake of upping its readership. 

Jared didn’t learn about the Black Falcon until his family moved north from Texas when he was fifteen. By then, the Black Falcon’s image had been tarnished, but Jared was still interested in all the stories he could eavesdrop on, read in the _Chronicle_ , and occasionally see on the news that ran during dinner.

Going off to college kept Jared occupied, just as something else seemed to keep the Black Falcon out of the spotlight and the press went quiet on that particular creature while discovering dozens upon dozens more. Across the country, stories popped up of hundreds of transformations among regular citizens. No one was born with these talents—and sometimes curses—that established themselves. No, humans were adapting to poor conditions around them.

A year ago, though, Jared’s world tipped over when Black Falcon popped back up on the radar. Lightning struck a weak elm and nearly ended a family barbeque. The tree was one of few that survived Dutch Elm Disease, but still met its maker as the trunk split and the bulk of its weight tipped into a backyard where guests were celebrating a retirement. The Black Falcon dipped in, shoved the tree out of the path of picnic benches and tables, and left just as quickly.

It was all just a tiny blip with a short echo, yet still enough to entice Jared to jump back into the fan club. Now Jared collects every _Chronicle_ clipping and is contemplating adding a map on his compu-screen to detail each and every one of the Black Falcon’s appearances.

As Jared imagines bold, block letters declaring _To be continued …_ on the Black Falcon’s story, the credits roll on screen and a handful of popcorn smacks his cheek and falls into his lap.

“You with us, Jay?” Aldis asks, wide eyes appearing judgmental and concerned all at once.

Jared pops out of his seat with a put-upon smile. “Yeah, I’m good. Anyone need another?” Before anyone can answer, he’s back in the kitchen, leaning into the fridge, and gathering up a third round to cover for his escape.

Jared has spent the last six years working at the Metro Credit Union, where he’s tried his best to apply his finance background. He’d worked at the same branch at the tail end of high school and returned once he had a degree in hand. Now at thirty-one, he’s the trusted morning shift manager. His dreams still include grander variations on investments and three-piece suits and penthouse brunches with the love of his life on a lazy Sunday morning.

Instead, it’s six thirty on a Tuesday morning, and he’s fighting the lock on the vault while a few of his high school and college-aged employees, ones that he surely behaved like a decade ago, tap feet to the tile floor and fingers at a nearby counter and loudly smack gum and sigh. They’re waiting on their drawers to open their stations while Jared swipes at the lock screen, creating intricate patterns the system won’t accept when not perfect. 

Five minutes pass as an eternity until Jared finally gets the correct paths in line. Now he can pass out the drawers and ignore the eye-rolling and sigh-heaving teens that slowly drag their feet to get to work by seven in the morning.

As the day progresses, customers come and go, and the employees make piddly errors that are hard to document, yet pile up for a mound of trouble over such a short time. When Mrs. Dunne, a sixty-four-year-old widow who always minds her dollars and cents for her savings, raises her voice above the soft hum of conversations about deposits and withdrawals, Jared knows he’s in trouble. It’s a monthly issue—Mrs. Dunne’s attitude—and Jared wishes she would disappear with her empty threats.

“No, no, no, I said I would wait,” she says sternly. Her declaration is loud enough to draw attention from every patron and employee in the building. 

“Ma’am, I can help you,” Brock Kelly, one of Jared’s newest hires and a fairly earnest man, replies with a tiny shake in his voice.

She laughs cruelly and pointedly looks away from Brock’s station. When she crosses her arms with her purse tucked tightly to her chest, Jared notices how she scratches at her wrist then rubs it with her whole palm. 

Brock is doing much the same, yet in protection of his skin issue thanks to a youth spent as an army brat. The thick dermal armor has protected Brock from the most treacherous sandstorms in Arizona, but does him no favors this far north. People like Mrs. Dunne shrink back with fear-filled ignorance and refuse to face it.

Jared steps out from behind the counter, and the swinging of the half-door echoes along with the soft clacks of his dress shoes on the pristine marble floor. Now, he’s drawn everyone’s attention. Everyone except for Mrs. Dunne. She continues to stare at Celine, the raven-haired, part-time college student bank teller standing at the station next to Brock’s. The one who’s still handling a business transaction with a tall brown-haired man—maybe a savings withdrawal by the shade of that pink slip on the counter. 

Jared offers them both a quick smile and wave, alarmed by the customer quickly turning away, but focuses on the real problem. “Mrs. Dunne, how can we help you today?” he asks kindly.

She barely grants him attention as she scoffs. “I can’t believe a place like this, and a nice man like you, would bother employing one of them.”

Jared feels the hit as clearly as he imagines Brock does, with his stomach swirling, blood pressure rising, and his palms sweating. “We’ve talked about this before, Mrs. Dunne. Any one of our certified tellers can help you.”

“I’m aware.”

“I’ve trained them all myself. I can vouch for each of them.”

She still refuses to look at him. “I’ll wait for one of the others.”

He sets his hand to the middle of his chest where heat begins to flare. He’s had a tough day so far with quite a few counting mishaps and Tom Welling starting an argument when Jared wouldn’t let him into his wife’s safety deposit box, no matter that the divorce wasn't final yet. Now, he’s encountering a well-known flash of heartburn. As a nervous habit, his fingers brush the outside of his dress pants, pulling at the pocket only to discover it’s empty. His antacids are back at his desk, though it’s likely better for him to not show the crutch that keeps him going through annoying days at the bank.

Once Celine is done with her customer, Jared sighs with relief. He motions towards the young girl’s counter even as she appears nonplussed to be given Mrs. Dunne as her next customer. Jared simply hopes for some efficient service and as little noise as possible for the rest of the day. He’ll fight her next month.

He hurries back to his office as quickly as possible, but decides to forego to the antacids and swallows down the rest of the water in his filtering bottle. With a sigh, he drops into his desk chair, which wobbles back and forth on its shaky base. The pack of antacids sit on his desk with the wrapper peeled away to show a fruity tablet. Orange, his favorite, stares at him. He only plays with the roll enough to tear away the loose paper then sets it back to the desk, standing on end.

Jared is startled by the abrupt noise of someone clearing their throat. In the doorway stands Celine with charcoal-rimmed eyes that judge him. His hands sneaks forward to cover the antacid and he asks what he can help her with.

“Mrs. Dunne wanted you to know that you’re an Altered sympathizer.”

Jared’s stomach gurgles acid, burning slinking up his esophagus. He swallows down the pain and blinks at Celine. “Okay.”

Her sigh is more visual, with rolled eyes, than any loud sound. “And she doesn’t like Altered sympathizers.” 

His fingers curl around the roll of antacids and he finds comfort in the press of the tablets against his palm. “Alright.”

Celine’s voice grows duller with every word. “And she’s taking her business to First Metro first thing in the morning.”

Another false promise; Jared almost wishes she would. “Fine.”

“And you should probably see a doctor before your throat disintegrates.”

He squeezes the roll so tightly that he swears he can feel the tablets crumble within the wrapper. “Noted.”

As soon as Celine is gone, Jared pops an orange and green tablet and relishes the way his taste buds kick at the addition of lime.

At the end of a night at the local pub, Jared and Chad stumble out the front door with three pitchers of beer split between the two of them. Jared weaves left and right, and then hurries to Chad’s side to keep him upright as well. Instead, they both fall to the hard, cold cement. There are chuckles—both theirs and those of the nearby spectators—until Jared rolls to his back, stretches his arms and legs, and ignores the sharp twist in his side.

As he stares up at the black sky above, he counts the large, twinkling stars. There are eight of those blinking lights plus one that’s coasting the sky with two blinking lights. Jared smirks and follows the path of the red eye flight crossing overhead until there’s a dark, moving shadow distracting Jared from counting stars or tracing planes.

“Look at that!” Jared yells while slapping a hand to Chad’s back.

Chad slowly rolls to the side and winces as he gets into position to follow the point of Jared’s stretched arm and finger. “What?”

“That thing there, moving to the left,” he insists, dragging his finger along with the swooping motion of what he thinks are wings. He sees the curve of a black wing, and if he squints hard enough and fills out the hope building in the pit of his stomach, he’s sure it’s the Black Falcon. 

“It’s not a bird.”

“Shut up.”

“Or a plane.”

“Chad, seriously,” Jared says with a quick dig of his elbow to Chad’s side. 

“Suuuuuuuuuuuuperman!” Chad cries with his arms flung into the air. His voice drops dramatically into a tired sigh. “It is not Superman, Jay. It’s a freaking shadow.”

“Or it’s the Black Falcon.”

“It is _not_ the Black Falcon. There is no such thing as the Black Falcon anymore, you idiot.”

“What do you mean, _no such thing_?”

“Guy hasn’t been around in a while. He’s probably dead.”

Jared slides up to sit and glares at his friend. “Dude, how hard you gotta be?”

“It’s true,” Chad replies simply as he moves up to the same position as Jared. He sighs and tips his head to the side with a slow movement of his hand cutting through the air between them. “Seriously. He hasn’t been around in, like, weeks. That ain’t on purpose. He’s dead or gone. Or both.”

Jared huffs and rushes to get to his feet and walk back to his apartment. Chad quickly catches up, but Jared isn’t up to listening to a single word. He lets Chad’s excuses pass by him as he starts moving quickly down the street.

“Jared!” Chad yells to get his attention, even spinning him around with a tight hand on Jared’s shoulder. “What is your deal with this guy?”

“What is _yours_? You’re always giving me shit about him, but you don’t care when Sophia goes on and on about the Swans.”

Chad laughs and throws his hands up. “Are you serious? It’s _Sophia_ , and I’m trying to get laid there. I’ll let her talk about anything whenever she wants.”

“Even triplets who turn into birds,” Jared points out flatly. 

“Yeah, especially that.” Chad laughs again and slaps Jared on the back before turning them around to walk towards Jared’s apartment. “I mean, they turn into _birds_.”

“So those birds are okay, but this one guy isn’t?”

“He isn’t a bird. Or a plane. It’s like a … freak.”

Before Jared can defend his interests in the Black Falcon, Chad’s distracted by a red light far off in the distance and is convinced it’s a fire truck.

Jared sighs and lets Chad know it’s just a red stoplight. And they’re drunk. So very, very drunk.

**PART TWO**

In the second half of the twenty-first century, following increases in the industrial world, variations in the polar ecosystem creating larger and more frequent storms, and pollution penetrating both the human dermis and respiratory systems, the genetic makeup of some humans adapted to the new world, and the Altereds came to be. Some experienced changes as minute as thicker skin and protection against the simple paper cut, while others witnessed drastic changes in response to new environmental threats.

Thus were born families like the Swans, where triplets Anne, Andrew, and Andrea could alter their outer layer of skin into a coat of feathers that helped protect them when threatened by rain or snow. There was no irony lost on their names and their abilities, though it did not always follow heritage or surnames.

Others were not as lucky to experience controlled alterations. The Schmidt boy went through high school with elaborately long fingers and nails that were regularly sharp and a threat to those around him. Before graduation, he was transitioned to home schooling and eventually swept off to Washington D.C. to be examined. Andy Roberts, a fifty-year-old father of three who worked a sales job with a regional carpeting king, experienced scaling skin that shed itself once a month. And Suzanne Lawrence grew patches of fur on her arms and legs to protect her against particularly harsh blizzards in New England.

Brock Kelly, Jared’s employee, had lived most of his junior high in the arid Arizona desert as his father finished out a career in the armed services, and now the skin of his hands and wrists is a rough, pale grey patch of hide. Others grew fur in the coldest corners of Alaska while survivors of excessive storms around the Gulf Coast sprouted gills to accept oxygen even when neighborhoods were flooded for weeks at a time.

Altereds was the name the _Chronicle_ assigned, while other names were whispered behind backs—beasts, monsters, animals. 

Many went into hiding; few dared to stay above ground and face criticism, which just made things easier, quieter for sure. Jared understood with an Altered on his payroll; Brock was low-key about it all and Jared thought life was going well.

These cases began as national sensations and governmental programs attempted to carefully introduce the transformations of the human system into society. They were all considered safe and accidental, and some Americans easily accepted the situations as a fun sort of distraction from how badly the world was changing over time. 

The reality check came in the form of those like the Black Falcon with exceptional abilities that developed efficiently in a single generation, as opposed to minute whisker growth over time until the third generation born to the century experienced a full mop of hair covering one’s arms. People like the Black Falcon weren’t fun side shows. 

Creatures that appeared on the scene prior to the Black Falcon shocked the world well before it was ready to witness the changes in creation. A young woman living in Alaska, who walked a good mile to and from work and home, grew a full foot during her twenties to accommodate the high drifts of snow she had to trudge through each way. An older man fighting through a flood had sprouted fins to survive deep waters while he attempted to save his neighbors from homes completely under water when dams broke in Colorado. Many others went mostly undocumented, but gossip and tall tales followed their escape from their hometowns.

The Black Falcon was the first to be accepted, but soon became one of hundreds to be rejected.

There were precious few who still held him in high esteem, but none could save his reputation and reintroduce him to society with dignity. There were too many mistakes in his past. A handful of other accidents, some appearances where he created chaos, rather than stopped it. A police chase was stopped with the interruption of fluttering wings antagonizing the cops as they raced down Lake Shore Drive, and the perpetrator escaped into the grid of Downtown streets. And instead of stopping purse snatchers, he became one himself as he swept down to street level and disrupted women on their way to work or mothers trying to manage excitable little tourists. 

Jared found it hard to believe in such negligence, not from the man he admired from afar.

It’s raining. Or more accurately, water is being dumped from the sky. It falls in thick sheets, blurring Jared’s sight out the front windshield of his four-door, hand-me-down, teal sedan that he’s never wanted, never liked, but didn’t have to buy. It’s lasted him since he graduated college; it can get him through this storm.

The windshield wipers are set to high, thumping from one side of the glass to the other, and back again. It’s giving him a world-class headache. Red brake lights pixelate in the foreground as raindrops obstruct most objects before him. He is careful to maneuver between cars to avoid the bad drivers, and wonders if they’re all doing their best to avoid him as well. 

He passes a tiny sports car that’s sun-bright yellow and no more than three feet off the ground. As he watches it through his passenger side window, he laughs to himself that he wouldn’t have fit inside that box after his ninth birthday. He imagines someone folded up like an accordion to squeeze into the driver’s seat, no matter how fantastically elaborate its instrumentation must be with home controls and meteorological scans. Then he laughs aloud when he realizes the man stuck in a midlife crisis can’t steer the wheels that are now half covered in the rainwater building up in the streets with nowhere to go. Too bad rubber is still just rubber.

When Jared faces forward, a hearse swings out of the driveway of Zimmer’s Funeral Home and into Jared’s lane. The hearse veers into the right lane where Mr. Midlife Crisis is still moseying along with his banana mobile, and then it cuts back in front of Jared so fast that he has to slam both feet down on the brake pedal. 

His car skids forward, rutting every few feet like the brakes are half-assing the job, but he knows he can’t stop in time. Not even when he engages the emergency brake, or when he punches the accident alarm on the dash.

Instead of his life flashing before his eyes, it’s the dreaded thought that a hearse will be his undoing. A fucking black double-long vehicle meant to carry the dead from their final gasping breath off to their everlasting resting place will be the last thing that goes through his head. Perhaps literally.

Jared’s fingers burn as he squeezes the steering wheel, and his calf and feet muscles clench in pain as he continues to press down on the brake. He’s sure he’ll break the pedal off with how hard he’s forcing it to the floor. Now every fraction of a second breaks down into every inane thought he could ever have. Including his gratitude that antacids are unneeded in Heaven.

Then he wonders if he’ll actually make it to Heaven, or if there even is one these days. Maybe it has been packed with good souls over time and now there are population issues, and what would God do with that?

His mind goes on to compare Heaven to the prison system’s own overcrowding when his car crashes with a heavy impact between the front headlights, the hood crushed in deep like an arrow pointing right to Jared’s afterlife. The back end of the car rises off the pavement just as the driver’s side air bag nails him in the face and shoves him back against the seat. 

The sedan lands on all four wheels in the exact spot of impact, as if the whole world had just paused in that moment and set him back down to earth. Only, Jared is covered in talcum powder and cornstarch. He feels the grit in his eyes and tries to blink it away. The white dust floats in the air as Jared slowly comes back online to look out the front window. He tucks the airbag down as it deflates and there isn’t that damned hearse before him, but a dark figure crouched down on the hood of his car. 

The rain still mutes any details outside the car, but Jared can make out a black leather jacket with the collar tipped up and obscuring most of a pale and rain-shiny face. A bare hand presses high on the hood of the car as the rest of the body is folded down near the grill. That hand is human and cut with blood slowly leaking over knuckles, and the body is taking up the entirety of the triangular dent in the car. Yet there is something inhuman about the whole form, and Jared is about to jump out of his seat and check the scene when there’s movement beyond the body.

Jared blinks to see through the particles swirling inside the car and the steam puffing out from under the hood, and that’s when his vision rights itself. Now, he counts dozens upon dozens of dull grey feathers lined up on either side of the man’s body. Together, the feathers make up wings that reach at least six feet in each direction. Jared dumbly thinks he could lie down twice and still not be as wide as that wingspan.

Adrenaline floods his system. His heart beats unbearably fast in his head. His hearing floats between uneven buzzing and white noise. Every muscle locks up, forbidding him from escaping the car to run as far away as possible or even to creep closer to the figure still mounted to the hood of his car. 

Jared wipes the inside of the windshield to clear some of the air bag debris and watches the man’s head lift up slowly to meet Jared’s gaze. After a second, Jared thinks it’s beautiful. After another, he knows it’s the Black Falcon.

The Black Falcon is still in the city. The Black Falcon leapt down on the hood of Jared’s car, created a massive crater in the front end, and nearly totaled it. The Black Falcon saved Jared’s life.

Once that registers, Jared fights against his seatbelt and the air bag to get out of the car, take a clearer look at the Black Falcon, and thank the man for not only saving his life, but for proving all of his theories true. That the Black Falcon is still here, and still a hero. 

Emergency sirens cry in the distance, and as Jared finally—finally—gets out of the car, red, white, and blue lights flash ahead of him with a fire truck, ambulance, and police cars coming to the charge. He looks from the barrage of crisis headed his way to the Black Falcon still perched on his car. The Black Falcon glances back to see the approaching vehicles, scowls, and then flings himself up with his wings spreading to their farthest reaches to carry him up and out of sight.

Jared tries to follow the path into darkness, but within moments, the Black Falcon is lost in the night. Before he can release a breath, he’s swarmed by emergency personnel—fire, police, medical—all clamoring to check his status, get him away from the car, and ensure the vehicle won’t soon burst into flames. Jared realizes the crowd has grown to include various bystanders and cars stopped as they try to get catch a glimpse of the accident site.

“Sir, sir,” someone is calling to him. “Can you hear me?”

A light moves in front of his face, back and forth, and he realizes it’s a paramedic with a flashlight. 

“Pupils are slightly dilated. Pressure is 130 over 90. We should take him in.”

More voices fade in and out as Jared continues to stare into the black sky. Even when all he can see is the rain, the drops grow larger as they fall closer to earth. Just like he imagines the Black Falcon had come down upon his car. From where, Jared has no idea. 

“Sir, are you okay? Can you hear me? Sir?”

Again the penlight runs across his face, though suddenly the rain ceases to drop on him. He is finally broken from his frozen moment and blinks at all that have surrounded him to realize a firefighter is holding a thick, flannel blanket above Jared’s head to allow him to dry. The paramedic is still checking for wounds and a cop is narrowing his eyes when Jared remains silent. He waves a hand in front of Jared’s face and grimaces.

“You okay, son?” The police officer turns to the car and back to Jared, now with a raised eyebrow. “Looks like quite an accident you got yourself into.”

Jared only nods, completely void of words to explain what happened, what he witnessed. 

“You hit an animal?”

“You hit something that leaves a mark like that,” the cop’s partner says with a small laugh, “it ain’t getting back up and out of here real quick.”

Jared looks off into the distance where street lights narrow down into a single line, seeing the path that brought him to the here and now. As his eyes trail along the light posts, he thinks he spots something, someone. He looks again and perched atop one light post is the same shape that he’d found on his car minutes ago. 

The figure rises, stretches its wings, slowly flaps them once then a second time more swiftly, and then leaps up and away for the second exit of the night.

Jared bangs so hard on Chad’s front door that he’s basically punching it, and his hand tells the story with raw knuckles beginning to bleed. Still, he knocks more and watches blood streak the wooden door.

He knows that it’s the middle of the night, but Jared doesn’t care at this point. He just spent a few hours in the ER to be cleared of any injuries, and handed a bottle of eye drops to help the burn and itch of the airbag’s powder. He then hailed a taxi outside the hospital, with his car being towed back to his apartment, and tipped handily to get here as soon as possible.

He keeps pounding on the door and finally shouts for Chad to _open this goddamned door right goddamned now!_

The door swings open and Jared has to look down at Sophia, who stands in only a white, baggy undershirt. So, apparently Chad got his wish to bed their long-time friend.

“Well, this is a development,” he says dumbly, all other immediacy put on pause. 

“Oh, shut up,” she grumbles with a roll of her eyes. She lets him in and turns on one of the living room lights on a side table. “Not like you guys didn’t insist upon it enough.” Her voice goes high on a whine while mocking him, “You two should just shut up and fuck. You guys always argue like an old, married couple.”

“You do argue like an old married couple. But I also thought you had standards.”

“Is that what you came here for? To catch me over here and berate me for it?”

The accident flashes in Jared’s mind and he clenches his sore hands then quickly releases them. “No, not at all.” Excitement burns in his voice and he can’t decide if he should smile or cry over the strange brew of excitement and terror he had witnessed during that accident. “Where’s Chad?” 

“Passed out. You know … one tequila, two tequila, thirteen tequila, dead on the floor.” Jared walks to check the bathroom, the kitchen, the dining area, and the hallway to the bedroom while Sophia watches. She leans back on the arm of the lime green sofa—a poor fixture in Chad’s life since college, and Jared has not so fond memories of walking in on Chad getting a blowjob from a Delta Pi recruit at the beginning of sophomore year—and crosses her arms with a frown. “What’s going on, Jay? You’re kinda freaking me out now.”

“Okay, alright.” Jared takes a deep breath, pushes his hands out in a calming motion, and releases air on a long sigh. “Tonight, I almost rear ended a hearse.”

“Sounds kinky,” Chad mumbles by way of entrance, scratching his bare belly then tugging boxers up and into place. 

Jared walks to the middle of the room where Chad now stands by Sophia. “No, seriously. I almost rear ended a hearse out on Ashland, but I didn’t.”

Chad leans into Sophia and stage whispers, “Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“I didn’t rear end the hearse because the Black Falcon saved me!” Jared exclaims, now feeling all the exhilaration flow through him from spotting his idol. “The Black Falcon jumped down, right on the hood of my car, and basically slammed me down in place so I never hit the hearse.”

“Is your car alright?” Sophia asks.

Jared laughs hysterically. “Is my car alright? Are you kidding me? Are you listening to what I’m saying?”

“Unfortunately,” Chad replies just before yawning. 

“The Black Falcon!” Jared exclaims again, now slapping the outer side of one hand into the palm of the other with every syllable. "The Black Falcon came down from the sky, pegged my car in place, and _saved … my … life_.”

Chad and Sophia stare at him for long, uncomfortable moments before looking at each other. Chad slowly blinks, walks to Jared, and pats him on the shoulder. “Jay, go home. You’re drunk.”

“No, I’m not! I’m telling you, it really happened! Just listen for a—”

“Good night, Jay,” Chad calls over his shoulder as he leads Sophia back to the bedroom.

Jared stands alone in Chad’s living room. He spins in place with a sigh to wonder where on earth his life is headed now that he has actually seen the Black Falcon and his friends think he’s crazy.

He stares out the living room window, out onto the street, and watches the rain continue to fall as heavily as it did before his life nearly ended at the tail end of that uncontrolled hearse. 

Jared blinks when he sees a figure moving outside, across the street, on the sidewalk. It’s huddled near bushes, but Jared can see the shine of rainwater on a leather jacket. There are no wings, but Jared is certain that it’s the same build and shape as the man who landed on his car. 

There is no way of knowing if the Black Falcon can see Jared staring right back. Jared slowly goes to the front door, opens it, and steps out onto the porch. In that short time, the Black Falcon has flown up into the sky and all Jared sees is the quick flutter of wings before he’s gone behind the trees.

At home, Jared spends the last few hours of the night sitting at the edge of his couch and staring at the compu-screen on the wall. With his pocket tablet, he scans through a variety of Altered blogs and reads all of the Black Falcon’s greatest hits. Probably for the fortieth time, but now he’s a man possessed. He critiques every photo—some professionally taken by _Chronicle_ staff, but far more captured by citizens on photo-tabs with bad lighting and poor focus. He analyzes each image to make out the same face, hair, build, and jacket. He even attempts to match the hands that he saw on the hood of his car.

He sets a few out in a grid on the compu-screen, and stands back to view them all together as a mosaic. There is a picture of the Black Falcon carrying a seemingly lifeless pre-teen girl out of the second story window of a burning home. There is one of him swooping down from the Monroe Bridge to halt the suicide attempt of a thirty-four-year-old business man who had just lost his job and couldn’t support his family. Others illustrate him arriving on scene or leaving a crisis that he prevented. Then there is the one in the upper right corner of the set-up. The Black Falcon is crouched to the ground with one hand down for balance and his wings spread out with the poise of an angel.

Jared blinks at the photo. He steps up to the screen, swipes away the others, and stretches the one left behind so it fills the entirety of his living room wall. He stares at it for long enough that so many of the features blur together. Even so, he is absolutely, positively, unconditionally sure that it is the same exact figure he saw on the hood of his car. 

He swipes the portrait off screen and starts his search again.

Over the next week, Jared checks web alerts, news sites, the nightly news programs, anything that might tell of the Black Falcon’s appearance before, during, or after Jared’s pre-empted accident.

There isn’t a single trace of him. 

Still, Jared continues his efforts to track down every word written about the Black Falcon. He even logs sightings from fan web pages (and even the hate blogs), checks his pocket tab at work at an unhealthy rate with his employees glaring at him for always drifting off during conversations. He shoves his living room couch, chair, and coffee table out of the way, and drags a city map from the compu-screen to the opposite wall. From there, he taps at the screen for color-coded pushpins to tell the Black Falcon’s story. Just like he has always wanted to do, but he never let himself get that far.

Green pins are official sightings told in the media, blue represent eye witness accounts, and red stands for observations made by those opposed to the Altereds. There is a fair spread across the city’s boundaries with a rainbow of pins filling in the Loop. Jared knows that makes sense, with a dense population of residents and workers congregating downtown more often than in the further reaches of the dilapidated city. But he is curious about a mix of red and blue pins that stretch out to the west. The pins flare out then all stop right at the northern end of the Canaryville neighborhood where meatpackers had thrived a few centuries ago until the land was leveled to make way for new factories. Now, abandoned buildings stand like ghosts. That short stretch of the former, infamous Union Stock Yards has laid vacant for years, except for all these links to the Black Falcon.

Jared blinks at the map and imagines the shuttered windows and barricaded doors he’s driven past to get out of town for road trips, taking the state route west to find better roads to carry him on his way. If he were an unwelcomed member of society in need of a place to escape, the lost factories would be the perfect place to set up shop and hide. 

He downs the rest of a cold coffee that was fresh over an hour ago, ignores the familiar burn in his stomach, and is determined to check those factories. Only, when he turns from the map to grab his wallet, he sees faded sunlight streak between his nearly closed drapes and realizes he’s about to face a new day and is expected to open the credit union in less than two hours.

Giving up for the night—day, really—Jared dumps his coffee in the kitchen sink and heads to the bathroom for a shower.

His research continues at work. He has a browser on his office wall open to a message board geared towards the love connections between regular citizens and the Altereds. 

He is not proud of how far he has fallen here, but he hopes to find out as much as he can about the types of Altereds out there, if there are any like the Black Falcon, if any are related to him, or even know how to find him. He just wants one little thread to unravel.

This is precisely when Celine catches him. Jared yelps and springs up on the wobbly base of his chair, and swears she purposefully snuck up on him to spy. 

She rolls her eyes and points at the screen. “I knocked three times, but you’re lost in a haze of puppy love.”

“Puppy love?” Jared not quite shrieks as he shuts down his pocket tab. He clears his throat and spins his chair around to fully face her. “I’m not in a haze of anything.”

Flatly, she says, “Just don’t tell me that you are actually in love with puppies. I know you like dogs, but this is too far.”

He sighs and sits up in his chair. He even attempts to seem businesslike as he sets his hands on his desk. “Can I help you, Celine?”

Still appearing bored, she nods towards the front of the building. “There’s a guy outside looking for you.”

“There is?”

“I just said so.”

“Who?”

“I didn’t bother to catch his name. But he said it was important. And about some feathers.”

Jared furrows his brow in thought, and worry really, to whether someone had tracked all of his internet searches to his job. Would the police bother to find him, or would they even really care? 

For a quick second he considers the nasty rhetoric he’s read on all of the Altered hate blogs and is immediately filled with fear for who’s asking after him. He fumbles to get out from behind his desk, feels a quick rise of heartburn, and pops an antacid, then marches out to the lobby. He can handle this. He’s a professional, and can present a simple case to rectify this. 

Right through the large panel of windows at the front of the building, he sees the face, the same smooth yet shapely one that saved him from a hearse-induced accident. Standing across the street is the tall man with the slim figure, blonde messy hair, and the black, short leather jacket. His hands are tucked into the pockets of tight jeans, and he’s standing casually on the sidewalk in front of AJ’s Ice Cream Shop, all while staring right at the credit union. 

Right at Jared, seems more like it. And Jared feels a chill run up his spine at the prospect of the Black Falcon appearing at his work in the middle of the day. As if he knows Jared’s been tracking his every move of the decade, as if he’s here to stop Jared from diving any deeper into the Black Falcon’s past.

The Black Falcon hasn’t made a daylight appearance in years; Jared’s done the research. His compu-screen history says so.

“No milkshakes for lunch, bozo,” is said just before Jared is shoved by the shoulder. He spins to Chad, who now steps into a fighter’s stance and fakes quick jabs to Jared’s midsection followed by an uppercut. 

“Chad?” Jared dumbly asks.

Said friend stretches his arms out in question. “Do I look like someone else?”

“No, I just …” he trails off and looks back outside to an empty sidewalk in front of the ice cream shop.

Chad snaps his fingers before Jared’s eyes then waves his hand. “Earth to Jared. Doo, doo, doo.”

“Yeah, I was just confused,” he recovers, though he doubts Chad believes it. He hardly believes it. “Celine said something about feathers.”

“Why would I say feathers?”

“I don’t know. What did you tell her?”

“I told her to tell you to get ready for Freddie’s. I want some pizza.”

Jared snaps and points at Chad, trying to play off the confusion. “Lunch, right.”

Chad mocks disappointment and mumbles, “You forgot about our lunch date, didn’t you?”

“With my favorite gal?” Jared throws his arm around Chad’s shoulder and marches them to the door. “Never. I just didn’t realize it was that time already.”

“Don’t you dare say ‘gal’ again, or you’re treating.”

“Okay, sweetie,” Jared says with a bright smile, glad he’d played off the confusion of seeing the Black Falcon standing across the street. Still, when they exit the building to walk a few blocks over, Jared can’t help but look over his shoulder for another glimpse. But no one is there.

**PART THREE**

Over two hundred years ago, the Back of the Yards neighborhood, just next to the Canaryville community, was a highly industrial neighborhood surrounded by homes inhabited by any and all of the local working class. Together, these neighborhoods created New City, which was seen as the chance to create something new and thriving in the area.

Thousands of immigrants found their footing here, slaving away in meatpacking factories, bringing home little change to keep the fires burning. The area thrived so long as the industry did, lasting until the mid-1900s when community organizations helped residents through the Great Depression and beyond.

Many heralded the Yards as a prime example of residents pulling themselves up at the boot straps and moving on to better housing, improved jobs, and living far superior to the generations before them. Just as the neighborhood grew up, the stockyards closed down. Fleeing residents found a home in the surrounding area and left the Yards for another wave of immigrants.

It took a few decades for the cycle to present itself once again, and nearly a century later, industry moved back in. The intent was to revive the old neighborhood with a bounty of food processes that were cheaper and leaner, as well as high-end technologies that would chauffeur in a new digital age. 

Still, history repeated itself and New City became old. Multi-story brick factories became ghosts of a successful time, where workers rushed through the entrance of the Stock Yards for a hard day of long hours to put food on the table and keep their families alive and as healthy as possible. 

Not many ventured into Canaryville anymore. There was no reason for life to exist on these lonely streets now. The buildings remained as a stamp in the City’s history, of what had once been, and what would never be again.

Jared arrives in the neglected industrial district, in the middle of the night, as he has done for the last few nights. The car was put back into working order so that it ran, but there’s a loud hum from the motor that Jared can’t ignore. He figures those he passes on the street can’t ignore it either. He’s grateful to park it at the opening of the industrial district, to return to the quiet night as the engine rumbles to a stop.

He carefully navigates broken sidewalk concrete and narrowly avoids muddy puddles from last night’s storm to check out the once-formidable Better Kettle potato chip plant. The building is nearly as wide as the whole city block and stands just three stories high. The placement of windows and views into broken windows tells him that it is entirely open inside. 

He approaches a window at ground level and uses the end of his sweatshirt sleeve to clear away grime and dust so he can see inside. Useless and barely broken-in equipment fills the place, and Jared recalls issues of toxins from chip bag production being released into the nearby South Branch of the Chicago River that dumped into the lake and tarnished the city’s water supply.

There are no signs of habitation or even visitation at this building, and he wonders what keeps vandals or vagrants from hiding out here. Squatters find all sorts of places to make their own, but this building is void of those signs. Perhaps the facility is such a danger that not even the most needy or careless would care to be here.

As Jared backs away from the building there is a solid _thwack_ from the roof. He hurriedly steps to the sidewalk and glances up to find the Black Falcon perched at the edge of the roof. His breath catches and he rolls his fingers in, nails pinching the palms of his hands. He licks his lips, lets out a soothing breath, and prepares to speak. 

Silence stretches on as they watch one another. Jared’s mouth dries up, his heart beats steadily in his chest, yet he is void of all words. 

The Black Falcon remains stock still with his wings half extended, as if awaiting the chance to flee—or attack, maybe. Jared doesn’t anticipate the latter, but there is a brief tendril of fear that winds through his stomach. 

He swallows hard, sighs to settle himself, and declares, “It’s you!” 

“That depends.”

Jared furrows his brow and pauses before asking, “On what?”

“On who you’re looking for.”

He chuckles nervously, but knows it in his heart. Not even the confidence that this is the same face he’s seen a few times over the last week, or that the man is dressed just the same as that night of the accident with a slim-fitting leather jacket, dark jeans, and scuffed boots, needs to tell him so. He just _knows_ it. “You’re the Black Falcon.”

“You really think so?”

“I saw you that night on Ashland,” Jared insists then slowly adds, “And I’ve seen you more times after that.”

The Black Falcon lifts off the building and lowers himself to the ground with lazy strokes of his wings. He stares at Jared, really seeks him out through his eyes for a few uncomfortable seconds, and then shakes his head with attitude. Like he doesn’t believe Jared’s insistence.

“Have you been following me?” Jared asks with a strange mix of excitement and fear.

“Maybe I should be asking you that,” he replies, marching away from Jared. He goes even faster as Jared follows in step. “I’ve seen you outside my building every night this week.”

Jared mentally fist pumps. “So it _is_ your building!”

The Black Falcon stops long enough to scowl at Jared, and it is a such a strong emotional impact that Jared slows and stumbles a few feet before getting his stride back. 

“Okay, alright, yeah, I’ve been going through the industrial district looking for you. But only because I’ve been curious. Not because I’m hunting you.”

“Well that’s good to know,” he replies sarcastically. 

“You must be curious, too, with all the times you’ve shown up where I’ve been.” 

“Must be a matter of coincidence.”

“It’s a real mad coincidence that I’ve never seen you before,” Jared challenges, “but then you saved my life and I can’t stop seeing you wherever I go.”

The Black Falcon stays quiet and keeps walking quickly. Jared realizes that the Black Falcon could easily fly right out of sight, but he is staying on the ground, as if letting Jared keep up with him. 

“You saved my life, you know?” Jared says, this time calmer and quite kind. He notices when the Black Falcon briefly flinches and lowers his head at that statement. “I owe you for that.”

“No one owes me nothing,” he declares roughly. “That’s the one constant in this world.”

“No one owes you anything,” he corrects.

Now the Black Falcon slows, finally stopping, and turns to face Jared. “Excuse me?”

“No one owes you anything,” he repeats. “You can’t say no one and nothing, double negatives and—”

“You’re correcting me?”

“No, I just—”

“Seriously,” the Black Falcon harps with an angry laugh. “You stalk me around town, follow me to my home, and now you’re going to harass me for my grammar?”

Jared realizes that they are standing in front of a darkened entryway. It is boarded up with weathered wood haphazardly aligned across the door frame, damaged over the years, and the windows at each of the three stories above are painted black. All other buildings Jared has seen in this area have been professionally covered with long boards inked up with boxy letters declaring the facilities off limits. _Do not enter_. _No trespassers._

“This is your home?” Jared asks carefully.

“No, it’s not,” he grumbles. 

“It just seems like—”

“What do you care?”

Jared stares the Black Falcon right in the eyes and tries to translate the years of adoration, the gratefulness of the actions on the night of the accident, and the pure curiosity for a man unfortunately cursed with two wings. “You saved my life.”

The Black Falcon’s eyes soften immediately and he is stock still along with Jared. It is quiet in this neighborhood, where they are far enough from real life that no noise can stretch to their ears. “Yeah, well,” the Black Falcon says quietly. “It happens sometimes.”

“I wanted to thank you for that.”

Seconds later, the Black Falcon’s wall rises and his face sobers, and Jared swears there is a chill in the air directly related to him. “You just did.”

“Yeah, I did,” Jared mumbles, at a lost for what he should really be saying. This is definitely not how he imagined his first conversation—any conversation—with the Black Falcon to go.

“Anything else?”

“I guess not.”

“Good,” he says firmly. In the blink of an eye, the back of his leather jacket flips up and his wings shake out to their full length. Jared briefly flinches, but then is stuck staring at the impressive stretch of wings this close. He is amazed that he can spot each individual feather, all layered upon one another, and flittering with every small movement the Black Falcon makes. The Black Falcon draws his wings in, quickly says, “Good night,” lifts up to the top of the building, and disappears. All in a matter of seconds.

Jared lets out a long sigh and drops his shoulders as he acknowledges the tension he had been holding while facing the Black Falcon. He keeps watching the top of the building and hoping the Black Falcon appears up there once more, but he never does while Jared stands there. 

Even so, Jared slowly says, “What an exit,” and grins before he finally turns away and heads home.

“You are crazy,” Chad says plainly.

“I’m not crazy,” Jared argues, pacing the short kitchen at the back of Chad’s house. 

“Totally crazy. With a big fat hard-on for the bird. Totally in love.”

“I do not have … I’m not in love with him.”

“Definitely. Definitely in love. Or secret gay lust … or is it bird love? Fowl lust?”

It infuriates Jared when Chad can calmly identify him as having an issue. Chad should be the imbalanced one in the group.

“I am not—look, I saw him at the Better Kettle plant,” Jared explains once again. “He showed up and flew off the roof, and then we walked together for another block.”

“You went to Better Kettle?” Genevieve asks, sliding around Sophia in the doorway and grabbing a few tortilla chips out of a bowl on the counter. “Those chips tasted like seawater,” she jokes, “you have the worst taste.”

“That is not the point,” Jared complains. “You’re not even listening to what I’m saying.”

“Because it’s nonsense,” she insists. “Are you drunk?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

Chad sighs. “Because it’s the only answer to your exceeding obsession with an _Altered_.”

Jared starts at the dark inflection in that final word. Still, he goes on, albeit slowly this time to sell it to his friends. “I saw the Black Falcon. He saved my life in that accident, he’s been following me around, and then I met him.”

“What’s his real name?” 

“I … well, I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.”

“Where does he live?” Genevieve adds. 

“In the Back of the Yards.”

“What building?” 

Jared mentally picks through the neighborhood while trying to recall what building they had stopped in front of last night. The one with the blackened windows and a scrappily boarded door. 

“Well?” Chad prompts with a tired look.

“I’m not sure. It’s a block north of Better Kettle.”

Genevieve sighs. “Seriously, the worst taste.”

“Near Sonic Motors,” he says quickly upon the memory.

“What does he look like?” Sophia pipes in. 

Jared turns to her, prepared to scowl, but he recognizes pure curiosity in her simple smile. Genevieve and Chad have gone quiet as they stare at her. Though they seem more confused and irritated than Jared is.

She shrugs and leans against the door frame. “Seriously. If you stood in front of him and talked to him, what does he look like?”

Like Pavlov’s dog, Jared’s mouth waters a little at the memory of that finely formed face, and he swallows before speaking. “He’s tall.”

“Like you?”

“Almost,” he answers with a small smile. “And has blond hair, kind of dark, and flicked to the side,” and he even motions that way with his fingers above his head. “And he’s always in a leather jacket and black jeans.”

Chad snickers. “Every superhero has his costume.”

Jared frowns even as he sees Sophia is still interested. He decides to focus on her instead, so he continues on. “And his wingspan is at least fifteen feet wide.” He spreads his arms and flicks his hands out. “Like humongous. And they reach almost as high. And the feathers are grey. Like a muted, almost dark grey. There’re hundreds of them.”

The room is silent and Jared takes time to glance at each of his friends for reactions. Sophia seems to be taking it in while Chad and Genevieve are still eying Jared oddly, likely considering his sanity. 

“Seems as if anyone would know that from the papers,” Chad suggests.

“The papers say his wings are black, but they’re not. They’re more like—“

“Muted grey, we heard you,” Genevieve says. 

“And he has freckles,” Jared quickly adds. “And light eyes, blue or green. Just like in the pictures.”

Chad scoffs. “How close are you getting to him, Jay? Did you already bang him?”

“I told you … I _saw_ him. I stood right in front of him, and then we walked a block down to where I think he lives.”

“Yeah? Why don’t you show us the Black Falcon’s nest?”

There is a strong challenge in Chad’s tone and his new stance with legs set wide, his shoulders up high, and his hands on his hips. 

“If you’re so certain that this is the guy, and he’s so harmless, what would that hurt?” 

“Seems pretty rude to just show up on his doorstep,” Jared jokes, but it falls flat in the tense room.

“You said yourself that he’s been following you around. What’s the hurt in letting some of your closest friends know exactly where he is? You know, in case anything were to happen.”

Jared narrows his eyes at Chad and wonders where this fresh attitude is coming from. “Like what?”

Chad easily shrugs, like it’s no skin off his back, and he is only an innocent. “I don’t know, but you’ve got to protect yourself, right? I mean, you’ve got yourself a stalker, and it’s an Altered! If you were to get hurt or something, who’s to say it wasn’t his fault.”

“It’s happened before,” Genevieve points out. “Maybe your accident was really all his fault to start with.”

Jared turns his stunned feelings into a hard expression. “I can’t believe you guys would say that. I _told_ you what happened that night. A hearse spun into traffic in front of me. I couldn’t stop, the brakes locked up, and I was going to smash my car, and myself, right into that thing.”

“And then he saved you, la la la,” Chad says with his hand swinging in the air. “You gotta work on your hero worship. You’re sounding far too desperate here, buddy. It’s getting ugly.”

“Yeah, he did save me! So, I’m sorry if I’m a bit grateful to the guy.”

“Grateful,” Chad parrots with a laugh. “Grateful to an Altered?” He looks to Sophia and Genevieve, who are clearly staying out of this leg of the conversation as they both move together into the dining room, and throws a hand through the air. “Can you believe all of this?” 

“And what if he didn’t?” Jared challenges. “Huh? What if he didn’t save me? Then what would you be saying?”

Chad stares back as Jared breathes heavily, chest tightening up with aggression and a stronger emotional punch to the thought that he really could have died that night. Or at least been critically injured, and here his friends stand unable to appreciate the notion that he didn’t. That he can stand before them right now, but they don’t seem to care. 

Especially Chad as he continues. “Then I guess we’d be reading about be another botched rescue for the Black Falcon.”

Jared blinks a few times and feels the weight of the words land heavily on his shoulders. He wants to fall into a chair or even to the ground with how callous that response was, and what that really means for how insensitive Sophia, Chad, and Genevieve really are. Three friends from college, whom he has known for nearly a decade, and who know him better than anyone else in this world. Three people he would give his life for, and expect nothing less in return … until now, apparently.

“Well,” Jared drags out with a shake of his head, “we all know where you stand on that issue.” He heads into the dining room and Sophia and Genevieve step apart for his exit. Not a single one of them attempts to make him stay or explain their stance, which disappoints him even more than the words shared in the kitchen. He knows judgment against Altereds is a heavy thing, but he’d expected their relationship to overshadow that.

When he reaches the door, Chad finally pipes up, but it’s not what Jared was hoping to hear. “Jay, be careful around him. You don’t know how dangerous those things are.”

“Just like I didn’t know how shitty you were?” Jared angrily smiles at the shocked looks on all three of his supposed friends, and stalks out the door without bothering to close it.

Jared walks the uneven sidewalk in front of Better Kettle and searches the rooftops of all buildings within sight. He swears her hears the distinct flap of wings behind him, yet whenever he looks, there is nothing there but stark street lamps creating more shadows among the dilapidated buildings than granting light.

He crosses 41st Street and stops in front of the building at which the Black Falcon left him. In the upper left corner of the top floor, the former building’s occupant is displayed in faded paint making way for dark brick beneath it. _Midland Mechanical_ claimed it could build better motors quicker and smaller than the competition. The mechanics would be built small enough to be inserted into laptops yet be strong enough to run heating and cooling systems in any size building.

Their downfall was not just tall dreams, but also muddled exhausts polluting the air, which in turn led to nearly toxic bouts of acid rain. The company lasted about two decades before the environmentalists successfully enacted regional boycotts and shut them down.

Jared sizes up the building then looks across the way to the Sonic Motors plant, which stretches the entirety of the square block. Another abandoned motor plant, four stories of windows are smudged with dirt and offset the sandy tone of the brick façade, adding to the eeriness of the neglected neighborhood. 

“You again?”

Jared spins around and sees the Black Falcon standing atop the roof, practically tip-toeing along the brick edge with his arms held out perpendicular to the earth. “Where did you come from?”

“My mom,” he answers simply, methodically stepping forward as if battling a balance beam. “But I would prefer not to visualize that too much.”

Narrowing his eyes, Jared feels jarred by the joke, especially compared to their last encounter. 

The Black Falcon quickly changes his attitude and his stance as he glares down at Jared. “Remember when you thought I was stalking you? I’m beginning to think that was redirection.” 

“I never said stalk,” Jared insists.

“No, you’re right. I did.” He pauses then crosses his arms at this chest. “I think it’s the other way around. You’re stalking me.”

“I’m not, I swear, you gotta believe me,” he pleads with his hands in the air. He feels foolish for begging like this, _about this_ , and tucks his hands into his jean pockets. He shrugs with a simple smile, dropping his posture to seem less intimidating than his six and a half foot frame. “I’m just curious.”

“About what?” he asks warily.

“You.”

The Black Falcon narrows his eyes as feathers drop out of the bottom of his jacket, as if he’s prepared to expand his wings and fly at a moment’s notice. Jared’s heart kicks up to double speed, fearful that the Black Falcon will either run off once again before they can have a real conversation, or worse … even when he doesn’t want to think that of him. Especially after insisting to his friends that the Black Falcon should never be considered that type of danger. “Why?”

“Because you saved me.”

“You’ve said that before.”

“And I’m saying it again."

“Get over it.”

“Okay, alright,” he says partly to the Black Falcon, but mostly to himself to calm down. Not one single encounter between them has gone as Jared had planned. Not that he has put _all_ that much thought into it. As a real possibility. “I’ve always been a fan.”

“A what?” the Black Falcon asks with shocked laughter.

“A fan.”

“No, yeah, I heard you. I just couldn’t believe actually you said it.”

Jared goes on to quickly explain, “For the last decade, I’ve tracked every single thing that you’ve done, all of your heroic saves, how the city used to stand behind you, and how—”

“They all disappeared with one accident that had nothing to do with me?” The Black Falcon shakes his head. “Either way, all of that still sounds like stalking to me.”

“No, it’s not, I promise. I’m a very levelheaded human being.”

“Who is in the middle of the Back of the Yards at,” he checks a glinting, silver watch at his wrist and tsks, “11:35 at night. Sounds like you’re totally on the level.”

“I just had a fight with my friends,” Jared says quickly, “about you, and how you saved me. They didn’t believe me, or just don’t care, I don’t know.”

“And you decided to run to the Yards after a spat? Yeah, you’re totally level headed.”

Jared rubs the back of his neck and massages the tiny crick forming from looking so high up. “You think maybe you could come down here so we could talk?”

“Why would I do you any favors? I’m the city’s most hated Altered.”

“That saved a stranger’s life,” Jared points out with a tiny smile. It grows wider when the Black Falcon doesn’t seem to have a response to that. “You’re obviously not such a bad guy.”

The Black Falcon continues to watch Jared, blinking slowly, until something flashes across his face and makes him seem more approachable, and perhaps thoughtful. Seconds later, he’s leaping off the edge of the building with quick flaps of his wings settling him down to the grass in front of Jared. 

Jared’s eyes widen at the sight of the wings spread wide and so close. Again, he can see the spine of each feather with barbs sprouting out in a myriad of greys, whites, and even jet black. Together, they create a shimmery gradient that nears silver more than grey when seen at this proximity. And the feathers are so much wider and longer than Jared had supposed, with thick shafts leading up to the main bend of the wing, and those bones and joints are also thicker than he had previously imagined.

“Are you afraid now?” the Black Falcon challenges.

“No, not at all,” Jared replies on a quick breath. “They’re beautiful.”

He draws his wings in, slowly folding up under his jacket, and narrows his eyes at Jared. 

Jared now notices that the leather is loose enough to allow the bulk of feathers and joints hide beneath it, that there’s quite a bit of heft at the Black Falcon’s back, bulking up the presence of the man’s shoulders and overall frame. 

“Didn’t anyone teach you not to stare?”

Jared snaps out of his awe from the color and strength of the wings, and tries to steady his body from too large of a reaction. He can still feel a flurry of nerves bouncing within, making his fingers jitter and the hair on his arms stand at attention. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t doing it in some creepy way.”

“Sure looked like it.”

“It’s just that they’re … they’re utterly amazing in person. I’ve only ever seen photos or videos, and it’s always you being this small,” and he sets his finger and thumb only an inch apart, “and doing something quick with your wings all blurred.”

The Black Falcon quirks an eyebrow, and Jared realizes that he doesn’t just want to know more about the Black Falcon, he really, really _needs_ to learn everything about him. Yet his mama always raised him on manners, so he sets his palm out and puts on his best smile. “I’m Jared.”

“That’s great.”

Jared moves his hand just a few inches closer. “And you are?”

The Black Falcon smirks. “You know who I am.”

“No, like, for real. What’s your given name?”

“You don’t think Black Falcon’s on my birth certificate.”

Jared glances away and tries to hide his annoyed, tired sigh. “I would never assume that, not in a million years. You surely have a real name and you’re certainly a real person.”

“There you go again,” he replies in what seems like it should be a taunt, yet Jared reads something truer in the Black Falcon’s gaze, “acting like I’m human.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because no one else does,” he replies breezily.

“Well, I’m not anyone else,” Jared insists with a tiny, hopeful smile.

“Yeah, you’re Jared.” He nods and Jared can sense nothing in the steady expression or the flat tone. “My stalker.”

“I’m not that either.”

“Maybe,” he says with a shrug. “The jury’s still out on that.”

Even with the dry tone, Jared is comforted by the brief smile that flits across the Black Falcon’s face. “I would probably suck at being a stalker.”

“You already do.”

“Maybe I should practice a little more." 

“Maybe?” the Black Falcon laughs as he briefly glances to the side. Then he looks right at Jared, their eyes meeting perfectly with matched smiles. “I think definitely.”

“I’ll be sure to work on it then.”

Jared now fully smiles at the playfulness between them. He is willing to stand here all night, every night, if he can encounter this gorgeous of a face mixed with this spirited conversation, wings or not. There is a flutter in his stomach and it is as nerve-wracking as acid reflux yet ten times more confusing. He quickly pops an antacid and ignores the Black Falcon’s cynical gaze.

He is really, truly, and honestly attracted to the Black Falcon. And he doesn’t even know the man’s real name.

He decides to rectify that. “So what is it?”

The Black Falcon narrows his eyes, even while seeming a bit interested in how their conversation is going. “What is what?”

“Your name? The one on your birth certificate.”

“I think I’ll save that for a rainy day,” the Black Falcon replies quietly, almost tense, but then he winks and quickly flies off. 

Jared realizes it’s flirting. He and the Black Falcon just flirted for the last ten minutes, and he is suddenly more turned on than he has been while speaking to any other human being in his life. He’s sad to admit there is something even more thrilling in watching the perfect arch of the Black Falcon’s wings as he rises above all buildings the area, shifts to the east, and sets his course towards the lake. 

All while Jared feels a distinct, gravitational pull to the Black Falcon, he jogs away and into the street in hopes of seeing more of him above the Midland Mechanical building. He does snag a quick hint of extended wings waving in the sky as the Black Falcon rises higher and more eastward until he fades into the dark night. 

Another grand exit that once again wows Jared.

Over the next two weeks, Jared roams Canaryville. This time, he’s unsuccessful in spotting the Black Falcon even when he swears he hears the flutter of wings off in the distance or catches the shape of feathers in shadows.

He leaves his house each time with determination and a kick in his step then walks along Canaryville’s abandoned streets with a sense of fulfillment. He still hasn’t spoken with his friends since he walked out of Chad’s house. They’ve exchanged voicemails, all guilty of calling at inopportune times to avoid real conversations. Jared has listened to more than his fair share of excuses for judgment of the Altereds, and he simply replied that he expected one hundred percent acceptance or none at all.

Especially acceptance of his story, of his death-defying experience, and subsequent encounters with the Black Falcon.

As Jared recalls these issues, he stops across from the Better Kettle facility. He’s not looking at anything in particular, vision blurring as he’s distracted with thoughts of his lost friends.

“What will it take for you to stop pestering me?”

Jared quickly turns to the building, spotting the Black Falcon standing at the corner of the roof, arms crossed, and wings engaged. “I’m not—” he begins, quickly interrupted with a loud snort, echoing in the cool night. “I’m not trying to.”

“Well, you are. And a few others, too.”

“Wait … what?”

The Black Falcon takes a deep breath, stalls the conversation to look across the nearby landscape, and then stretches his wings out to fly down to street level. He keeps a bit of space between them, but now his voice lowers and Jared can hear the tension in his words. 

“I’m not the only one you’re bothering here.”

Jared’s mind whirls at the idea that there are more like him that he can see and meet and know more about … “There are others,” he half states, half asks.

“I’m not the only Altered in Chicago, Jared.”

Another brief flash of excitement takes over all critical thinking as Jared realizes the Black Falcon has used his name. In a hushed, borderline agonized way. “There are other Altereds here?” Jared asks with a rush of adrenaline.

The Black Falcon steps closer then halts quickly as if he fears getting too near. “There are other Altereds here, and they’re the kind you want to stay away from.”

Instinct tells him to looks around to spot these other Altereds, so he has full comprehension of just how much trouble he’ll be in. Are there two right behind him? Twenty on the rooftop of Better Kettle, just waiting to pounce? Yet, he can’t do more than watch the Black Falcon’s face contort with a hint of concern. “Why?”

He sighs and tips his head down, looking up to Jared from a troubled, set brow line. “Just as there are many of _you_ out there that don’t like us, there are some of us who return the sentiment.”

“Are you one of those?”

The Black Falcon’s eyes flicker up above Jared, then as Jared glances over his shoulder, he insists, “You should leave.”

Jared spots another figure atop Better Kettle. The man stands tall, much like the Black Falcon always has, with broad shoulders establishing his presence just before grey wings snap out from under his short duster. His brown hair is cut close to his head and his legs are spread confidently to add to the intimidating stance. The feathers flare out and wave slowly, and Jared’s distracted enough that when he turns around, the Black Falcon is gone and Jared has no clue for how long that’s been a fact.

He dumbly shuffles back to look at the other man and is unnerved that the wings are still slowly flicking forward and back while the man is glaring down at Jared. 

For a split second, Jared thinks he knows this Altered, swears he’s seen him out on the streets in daylight. He supposes—fears—that half those times he thought the Black Falcon was trailing him, it could have been an entirely different Altered who had the same adaptation. The fierce glance and sweep of wings sets off alarms, and Jared is certain this Altered is like the ones Chad, Sophia, and Genevieve were warning him of.

**PART FOUR**

Once they were made public, and the world side-eyed the possibility for a new breed of human, most Altereds stayed under the radar. They lived their daily lives with band practice, soccer games, and ballet recitals, and did their best to hide their abilities unless absolutely needed. Society seemed comfortable with that, and never questioned if Edgewater’s swimming team was a three-time state champion because any number of them had slick scales along their shoulders and backs to propel them faster through the water. On a few occasions, opposing teams claimed witness of the glossy plates of skin beneath the water, but whenever the swimmers surfaced, especially in first place, no one questioned it further.

With the far spread of the City limits, Chicago became a safe haven for many. It wasn’t so much acceptance as it was avoidance. So long as the average citizen didn’t witness the real transformations, then life would continue without issue.

And so the City silently accepted the innocents, ones who minimized their impacts on the world and never took much for granted or attempted to utilize their adaptations for bad. 

Until the Black Falcon’s quick decline brought the issue back to the front of all residents’ minds. Once the City’s hero, the wings suddenly stood for something different, wrong, dangerous. From then on, any possible advantage a person could have by way of alteration was questioned, and often rejected. Even when Cecil ‘Stretch’ Lee used his rubbery arms to save a woman too concerned with her cell phone to observe oncoming traffic, he was greeted with complaints when she suffered a broken collarbone as they tumbled out of the way of a bright yellow taxi. No one heard of him again.

Many went on to disbelieve most accounts of good deeds performed by Altereds, or to twist the stories into tales of horror and injustice. Numerous groups arose to document the negatives that these Altereds brought to the City, and so many of the innocents were driven east, where they could start over and attempt once more to hide their new traits.

Just as the world and its climate were temperamental, people were, too. Sadly, so were the Altereds, who now feared for discovery and attacks simply because they existed. So many hid among abandoned neighborhoods throughout the City, and many went unnoticed. But still, when a _normal_ made Canaryville one of his most visited stops on the South Side, some Altereds took notice and wanted to protect what they’d created for themselves.

When Jared arrives at the Credit Union, all seems well and good. It’s like any other Tuesday, and Celine even smiles at him when he hands her a credit box to check. Brock gives a rather hearty, “Morning, Mr. P,” when they pass through the back office area, and the morning starts off easy as anything.

Jared is left with plenty of free time as everything is simple and easy this morning, and so he takes out his pocket tab, opens a few browser portals, and flicks web links across the longest wall of his office.

For the fourth day in a row, he’s seeking out information on Altereds who are rather … unhappy … with the rest of humankind. Those who would be focused on protecting their areas and taking the steps to ward off any potential threats. He combs through photo galleries that document Altereds who Chicagoans have encountered. Picture after picture is blurry and dark, the night taking over any possibility for Jared to find the man who’d stood above him the last time he spoke to the Black Falcon. 

It takes him hours to recognize he’s hungry and never stopped for lunch, even as he absently okayed each of his staff’s breaks. He steps into the front of the building, observes his employees handling any customer issue—loans, transfers, even a certified credit—and smiles as he turns towards the front of the lobby to judge the weather.

He stalls, not because it’s brighter outside than ten feet from the sun, and residents traveling along the sidewalks appear to be using umbrellas against the intense light and fanning themselves … but because that man, the one with the wings from Canaryville who Jared is certain he’s seen before, is standing across the street. And staring right back at Jared. 

Even with the distance between them, Jared can tell the man’s gaze is harsh and critical. As if he’s sizing Jared up all while trying to project his own authority and power by stalking Jared. 

That last part gets Jared into action, as he tells himself that he won’t be terrorized by another Altered. By another person, period. So he marches outside, and once he’s got the Credit Union door tossed open, there are only people passing between him and the store fronts on the other side of the street. 

The Altered is already gone, and not even long glances across the sky give away his path. Jared is simply staring up at a blinding sun and empty, blue skies, before he blinks away the spots in his vision and returns to his office without a word to his confused employees.

Jared waits until closing, with his blood boiling and his anger bubbling to the surface, to do anything about the Altered who is now stalking him. He efficiently wraps up all loose ends at work, shuts down the Credit Union, and finger-swipes the alarm codes so he can head out. To Canaryville to face his aggressor.

The sun’s drawing down for the night, casting shadows in the back parking lot. Jared’s fiddling with his pocket tab to get the car unlocked, then stutters to a halt and drops the tab so it slides beneath his car.

The Black Falcon sits in the arrow-head dent in the hood of Jared’s car. It’s far too ironic for Jared to bear, to recognize that the same man created that dent and set off the series of events to make Jared question the real motivations behind the Altereds in the Yards neighborhood is now standing before him as relaxed as anything.

“What’re you doing here?” Jared demands.

Casually, the Black Falcon brings his foot up to rest on the bumper and picks at the side of his thumbnail. “Making sure you stay outta trouble.”

“And what about your friend?” He’s unsure where the sudden anger has come from; it’s been building all day, truth be told, but he’d imagined he would be more reserved if facing his long-time hero. “Was he making sure I wasn’t in trouble while hanging around my place of business?”

The Black Falcon glances over, eyes intent on Jared’s before he blinks, as if finally believing Jared’s ire. “I don’t know about that.”

“I’m sure you don’t,” he sighs. He crouches down beside the driver’s side door and reaches below for his tab, but then the Black Falcon is stooping alongside him. A dusty grey wing unfolds, stretches out along the ground, and sweeps the tab up among its feathers. “Thank you,” Jared says briskly, and tries to grab for the tablet.

The Black Falcon transfers the tablet to his left hand and turns the piece over in his palm. “I don’t think you meant that thank you.”

When Jared meets his eyes, there’s something sparkling beneath the surface. Something playful and fun, sort of like their other meetings. Jared huffs a laugh and tips his head. “Thank you for retrieving my tablet. May I have it back now?”

He puts the tablet out then pulls it back to his chest before Jared can get a finger on it. “May you have it back now, what?”

Jared rolls his eyes and tries to fight back his laughter. He seriously fails because now he’s smiling with the Black Falcon. “Please? Maybe I have it back now, please?”

“Yes, you may.”

When Jared has it back, he inspects it for any cracks of smudges, but it all appears well and good. As does the Black Falcon, who is now taking in all of Jared from head to toe. Before Jared can point it out, the Altered speaks quite gravely.

“When was he here?” he asks, sounding like he’s getting down to business. He looks it, too, with his wings folding up beneath his jacket and his arms crossing against his chest.

“About two o’clock?”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. He was gone before I could get outside to go after him.”

The Black Falcon shakes his head. “Don’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s not a very happy kind of guy. Not up for making friends.”

“Oh, like you are?” Jared shoots back, tighter than he’d intended.

The Black Falcon takes another long moment to look at Jared. With one blink, his typically closed-off demeanor breaks and he’s nearly smiling—all kind and welcoming. “I’m talking to you right now, aren’t I?”

Slowly, Jared dares to ask, “And why is that?”

“Because you’re like a tick,” he replies playfully, “you got under my skin.”

Jared lifts his eyebrows, interested and also surprised. 

“And to make sure you don’t do something stupid … like poke Tahmoh in the cage.”

“Excuse me?”

“Tahmoh, your new friendly shadow … he’s not too happy you were hanging around our parts, or that you’re bugging me.”

Jared swallows, wholly unsure what kind of situation he’s walked himself into. “And why is that?”

“Like I said … your people don’t like us, and some of us don’t like you back.”

“I’m not like all the others,” he argues, as if he’s also arguing against this Tahmoh guy.

“It’s not always easy to tell that difference.”

As the Black Falcon flicks an eyebrow with attitude, Jared considers so many of the excuses his own kind have given over time for wanting to dismiss the Altereds. “I guess I never thought of it that way.”

“Funny how that works,” he says with an odd smirk. He drops his arms to his sides as his wings stretch out then sets them only halfway out, as if preparing to flee. 

“Wait,” Jared insists, hands reaching out to keep the man here, but the Black Falcon quickly steps back. “I just …” He sighs and drops his arms to his sides, shoulders slouching as well. “You know I’m not like the others, right?”

After a long look, and a long-held breath on Jared’s side, the Black Falcon minutely nods. “You know I’m not either, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good.” Then the Black Falcon flaps his wings up and down, jumping into the air and hovering over Jared with slow, easy movements. “I’ll see ya around sometime.”

Jared steps closer. “When?”

“ _Sometime_ ,” he replies, winks, and then flies straight up before turning south. He flies so high and so far that his figure shrinks into something more akin to a simple black bird coasting across the darkening sky. 

“And maybe sometime you won’t just fly off into space,” Jared grumbles, “and we can actually talk or something.”

Jared’s only a few blocks from Canaryville, at as good a place as any to turn around and go home. But his brain doesn’t make him pull over and go back home.

He’s convinced himself, after a few drinks with Chad in an attempt to rectify their friendship, that he would seek out the Black Falcon and make _sometime_ into _right now_. Even as Jared most definitely kept the subject of the Black Falcon off the table, and Chad did as well, his mind was totally focused on the man’s long wingspan, the feathers fluttering with every tiny movement of a winged joint, and his warm smiles as they’d flirted. 

Just before he turns the corner where he’ll officially cross into the Canaryville limits, he feels a sharp tug at the back of his sweater and he’s being yanked off the ground with dark wings flapping around him.

He shouts and flails until he realizes he’s now flying high enough up that if he continues fighting, he will be dropped and never survive. He tries defending himself against the threat, tell this Tahmoh person that he isn’t a menace or a risk to the happy little village they’ve created near the yards. The cool night air breaks across his face, and he has to stop yelling to catch his breath, and then he can manage to fully relax as he recognizes the Black Falcon in profile and not the other dangerous man.

Shortly after, the Black Falcon drops them down to a long-ago abandoned park with overgrown weeds and withered plants hiding much of the earth, and a few trees with drooping branches provide some cover from the moon. 

“I thought I told you to stay away,” the Black Falcon says tersely as Jared complains, “You could’ve warned me before you snatched me up!”

“I had to get you out of there before Tahmoh grabbed you first!”

“You still could’ve—” Then it hits Jared: the Black Falcon’s tight grip on Jared’s shoulders, still keeping them close, the strong brown line creasing his forehead, and the quickly rising chest that seems to fight to keep air going in either directly. “I’m sorry,” he admits quietly, “I just wanted to come see you.”

Slowly, the Black Falcon’s grip loosens and the edge of his stance and facial expression eases as well. “Why?”

Jared shrugs, unable to put into words the … infatuation? The admiration and gratitude? The slow curl of warmth that gathers in his stomach whenever he thinks about their interactions?

The Black Falcon runs his hands over the wrinkles in Jared’s sweater and refuses to look anywhere near Jared’s face. “Just, stay away from Canaryville. He was watching for you.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I was, too,” he admits just before meeting Jared’s gaze so briefly, Jared isn’t even sure it really happened. Except for the way he felt an instant jolt run through his legs. 

“Why?”

The Black Falcon seems at a loss for how to answer that, mouth opening and closing. Finally, he admits, “I’ve been making sure Tahmoh stays away. That you’re safe.”

It’s mindblowing, to think that it wasn’t stalking that the Black Falcon was doing, but protection. “Thank you. Again.”

“Yeah, well …” He self-consciously runs a hand over his head and manages a brief smile in Jared’s direction.

“What is your name?” Jared asks suddenly. The Black Falcon now eyes him, one eyebrow rising high on his forehead. “Mine is Jared.”

“I know that.”

“So what is yours? It’s only polite, you know?” 

The Black Falcon laughs. “Oh, you think so?”

“It’s worth a shot.”

“Oh really?”

Jared shrugs and smiles, most of the previous tension relieved. “Sure, why not?”

“For many reasons.”

“So you’re not going to tell me?”

“If I did, I’d have to kill you.”

“See, that’s the interesting thing,” Jared says with a smooth smile. “You saved my life, twice now, maybe? So here I am on gifted time. I figure there’s no better thing in the world than to take advantage of what I have in front of me.”

“That’s quite a bold statement for a Normal.”

“And it was quite a bold statement for you to save my life that night.”

The Black Falcon shrugs, but he doesn’t seem so nonchalant when he glances at Jared. “I’ve got a bad reputation, you know?”

“So I’ve heard. But you also have a pretty good show rate on my behalf.”

The Black Falcon chuckles and shakes his head. “That sounds way worse than you probably intended.”

“It’s still true. And you already told me that you’re not like the others.” The Black Falcon shakes his head and turns away, making his way back towards the street. Jared hurries to catch up, then notices they fall into an easy stride. The Falcon isn’t trying to out-walk Jared, and is once again not flying off into the night. Jared decides to take full advantage of the moment. “So what were you doing out in the city that night?”

“Looking for damsels in distress,” he volleys back with a sarcastic tone.

“And you certainly found one, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I’d say I did.”

“Do you do that often? Seek out damsels in the night?”

“There are a lot of bad drivers out there,” he jokes.

“And what about for tonight?”

The Black Falcon stops, slowly turns to Jared. They share a long look before he sighs. “It’s Jensen.”

“What is?”

He laughs and smacks Jared on the shoulder. “The answer to your burning question.”

“Really?” he asks with interest. He feels a quick flare of excitement at the Black Falcon—Jensen—opening up to him. There is also the sense of a puzzle piece being set in place within a vibrant landscape waiting to be filled.

“Yeah.” After a moment, he eyes Jared. “You think it’s weird.”

“Well, it’s no Bob, Jim, or Steve. Or Jim Bob.”

He rolls his eyes and elbows Jared. 

“Jensen,” Jared tries out, and rushes out a breath at the delight in finally knowing and saying the name. “I like it.”

“Great, because I’ve been dying for your approval.”

Jensen shows up a few more times at the credit union come the end of the day. They spend time talking near Jared’s car, discussing how bad the damage in the hood is, even contemplating local mechanics to fix it. Jared explains how boring the credit union is, but that it’s an easy job with fair to good employees. Though when he complains about another visit from Mrs. Dunne, who decided not to close her account of course, and has to take an antacid as heartburn reappears with the memory, Jensen side eyes him.

“So, I have a weak stomach, what of it,” Jared jokes.

“You must miss out on all the fun.”

“Like what?”

Jensen shrugs. “I don’t know, but if you’re getting sick from a desk job, seems like you can’t experience everything else around you. There’s more to life than sitting at a computer.”

“Says the guy with wings,” Jared laughs. “Who can pick up and fly anywhere in the world on a second’s notice.”

“Are you jealous?” Jensen taunts. He lifts off the ground and hovers just above Jared. He hasn’t let out his wings in public before, when they’re just hanging out, and Jared is awed by the moment of trust, of Jensen letting go. 

“A little,” Jared admits with a grin. “I could’ve saved a lot of time on the road if I could fly.”

“But it’s not for the weak of stomach. You have to withstand a lot of the heights and the speeds.”

“I think I could get used to it.”

“You sure?” When Jared nods, Jensen dips down to tuck an arm beneath Jared’s and pulls them off the ground. 

“What’re you doing! No, c’mon, no screwing around!” Jared fights to get a better grip on Jensen, and finally gets a hold over Jensen’s shoulder. By then, they’re a few stories off the ground and slowly rising, Jared’s car shrinking the further they get away. “Holy shit, wait, not too fast!” he insists, as fear and exhilaration battle within.

Jensen only chuckles, “Okay, sweetheart.”

They drift around the area and Jared gets a brand new perspective to the neighborhood he works in, seeing it all from the top. His body also calms down and his trust in Jensen grows the longer they stay up there. It could only be five or ten minutes, but it’s a lifetime for Jared. 

Especially once they’re on the ground and Jared’s legs are a bit wobbly with adrenaline. He breaths deeply to relax his body while watching Jensen’s wings slowly sweep the ground as he hasn’t yet pulled them in. 

“You okay there, champ?” Jensen asks.

Jared beams. “That was pretty awesome.”

“No need for a Tums?”

In lieu of an answer, Jared pulls the roll out of his pocket and throws them as far down the alley as he can. Jensen laughs heartily and Jared wishes he could do it all again. From start to finish, so long as it would end with Jensen’s bright laughter. 

Jensen’s wings brush the ground and Jared can’t stop staring at them, admiring the grace of each feather and the contrasting strength in each vane and joint to bring such power as to lift them both off the ground.

Suddenly, Jared wants to know all about Jensen’s wings and how they came from him

“Can I ask you a question?” Jared asks quickly, before he loses his nerve.

Jensen eyes him and smirks. “You just did.”

He huffs out a laugh, but goes on to ask the burning question. “How did you get your wings?”

Like being burned, Jensen flinches and his wings wrap back up beneath his coat. 

“Okay,” Jared says slowly. “Maybe I can’t ask.”

“Why do you want to know?”

He laughs nervously again. “I mean, you just flew me up in the air with these altered wings … I’d kind of like to know how they came to be before I let you do it again.”

Jensen leans coolly against Jared’s car and crosses his feet at his ankles and his arms across his chest. “So, you trust me enough to fly again?”

“I guess it depends on your answer,” Jared teases.

“We had a car accident on a bridge, and our car tipped over the side.”

“Holy cow,” Jared sighs.

Jensen nods, but seems comfortable enough to continue. “I was able to get out of the car before it went under, and I was standing on top of the car when suddenly, the wings popped out.” He chuckles awkwardly and winces with the memory. “It hurt like hell, them just … coming out. I’d never felt anything like that before. It was scary as shit … in the beginning, they just sort of had a mind of their own. So these _wings_ start flapping and got me up off the car. Then I flew back up to the bridge.”

“Holy shit,” he amends at the visual. “Where was this?”

“San Francisco. The Golden Gate Bridge.”

Jared has no words for that; nothing exceeds _holy shit_ when imagining a fall from over seven hundred feet above the Bay. 

“I was with my parents,” he admits. “I survived, but they didn’t.” 

“I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine experiencing that.” _And losing your parents_ goes unsaid, as Jared’s afraid to say too much in this moment. He continues to watch Jensen. It appears he needs to let this all out. Jared imagines Jensen hasn’t spoken of it in ages.

“After all that, I told myself that I was transformed for something good. And I should help out where I can.”

“I think you’ve succeeded,” Jared murmurs with his eyes getting wet and warm. 

Jensen nods with his own eyes watering. “I’d like to think so.”

“Well, I think you’re one of the good guys.”

For once, Jensen doesn’t come back with a smart-ass comment or something to mock Jared with in return. He just smiles before saying good night.

Jared would never admit to being afraid of heights, but sometimes extreme situations call for such an admission. With a bad dream at the age of eight, where he imagined chasing his dog down a street that suddenly came to end, and they both fell over into a ravine, he’d been afraid of excessive altitudes. He’d awoken just before they hit water, but that falling sensation remained with him for a few seconds.

Ever since, he’d never considered climbing tall buildings and staring down upon the world, but here he is. He stands atop Willis Tower, with its one hundred and ten stories and a white antenna stretching another three hundred feet into the air. The wind is brisk and quick, making his eyes water and goose bumps pop up along his arms. Still, he stands firm with his feet shoulder width apart and his arms resting quite easily at his sides. 

“Afraid?” Jensen whispers in his ear as he rounds Jared from behind then stands beside him.

Jared glances over, fights a tiny quiver in his lower lip, and then smiles. “No, are you?”

Jensen flaps his wings out a few inches as a reminder then slips them back under his coat. 

“Alright, show off.”

“I didn’t say a word,” Jensen says lightly then mocks zipping his lips.

Leaning just an inch or so forward amps up Jared’s heartbeat, pounding loudly in his ears, pressing hard in his chest. He still dares to look down the length of glass and steel to where vehicles appear as matchbox cars on a toy track he had when he was seven. The lights of the city also seem small and far away as no buildings in the area can compete with the sheer height of the Tower. He feels so big in contrast, something he hadn’t imagined experiencing from way up here. 

The moment itself feels even larger, more impossible to complete, yet he’s only steps away from doing it. Jensen is still watching him, but his cocky smirk has evened out into something kinder, curious, maybe even concerned. Jared meets Jensen’s gaze, searches his face for any flash of doubt that never shows.

So Jared gives him a short nod, sets his arms out in front of him as if taking the diving board at a community pool, and jumps.

And then he screams, air punching into his lungs as he free falls and stealing his breath. 

The wind feels harsher as he falls, whipping through his hair, flipping his jacket and shirt up, even filling up the legs of his jeans. He somersaults through the air until he can sense the ground rushing upon him. He turns himself upright, prays for an easy afterlife, then is lifted up with Jensen’s arms swathing him like a baby. Those graceful wings are spread out and lazily wagging as Jensen takes them west, flying between buildings and soaring over the Chicago River before swinging to the right and setting them down on an empty plaza facing the river.

Jared’s heart is racing faster than when he stood nearly fifteen hundred feet above the ground. He knows it’s a strange mix of fear from the drop, elation of Jensen’s catch and flight, and admiration for the man standing before him. 

“You good?” Jensen asks, checking Jared’s face for a lie.

“I’m great, yeah, it’s good,” Jared says quickly, excitedly. He sucks in a cold, harsh breath and releases it with a bit of a delighted yelp.

Jensen laughs and pats Jared on the back as his wings fold up and in. “I told you it wasn’t so bad.”

“The falling is the hardest part.” He laughs then looks up between the high rises to catch a glimpse of the Tower’s antenna. He can’t believe he just leapt off the top of that building for a free fall with only Jensen to catch him. “To finally just do it, to let go of everything you’re afraid of.”

When there is no reply, Jared turns to Jensen and is confused by the strange look on Jensen’s face. As if Jensen is judging Jared for what he has just said, or questioning what they just did. 

To distract them both, Jared runs quick hands over his head to right the mess of wind brushed hair and laughs. “Now I see why you keep your hair short. Otherwise you’d lose a fortune on hair products after every flight.”

The corner of Jensen’s mouth tips up as he glances ahead, between the buildings on the other side of the river, and nods. “You got that right.” As Jared is about to suggest heading home for the night, Jensen brightens up with an easy smile and open, fresh eyes. “You wanna go again?”

Jared’s stomach drops just as it did when he took the jump. Panic fills him instantly at the thought of being that high up again. Still, he can’t help but say yes when Jensen looks at him like that.

And he finds along the next few weeks that Jared has a hard time saying no as they build a friendship that includes a dozen more flights across the City and breaks Jared out of the pit he never knew he was stuck in. 

Flying with Jensen is exhilarating … but just _being_ with him is even more thrilling.

**PART FIVE**

The government was slow to react to the Altereds, but when it did, it was with swift action. ARP, the Altered Registration Program, was enacted as a form of safety for all. It was said that it would help keep the rest of the country settled on the subject of Altereds living among them if they were properly registered and tracked within their chosen cities. Many argued that it grounded Altereds from living freely, while others fought for a system that would keep Altereds on a leash.

As with any national program sanctioned by the government, it had its flaws. Not all Altereds cared to be registered, and it was difficult to enforce the registration when the police didn’t know it hadn’t been done. Profiling was hotly contested in metropolitan areas with protests and marches popping up in most major cities. Issued their own licenses, many Altereds were still discriminated against and hauled into police departments with undue charges. Some were imprisoned for the most minor of incriminations, while others lived entirely free of any jurisdictional limits and remained under the radar. 

Naturally, the search for profit won out on legalities. Dollars changed hands indiscriminately for the government to employ a specific line of technologies to keep tracking Altereds in every area of the country. As Altered rights were raised, so was the need for transparency at all levels of the government. 

The public’s outcry for political corruption became too loud and the program was terminated after three decades. Yet many Altereds still lived with the microchips and many satellite systems were capable of tracking their every move. 

It created greater unrest between the Altereds and the rest of the country—against one another and within their own groups as many sought to revive the program and others cried for freedom of all kinds. 

In the end, what had seemed to support technological and political advances actually created a backslide in human rights progress. The country learned once again that no deed—good or bad—goes unpunished.

On his own dare, Jared enters Canaryville just after midnight. It’s been a full week since he’s seen Jensen, and he’s tired of letting his brain wander free with the scenarios. If Tahmoh—and maybe others—were upset with the time Jensen has spent away from the group, that Jared is now some part of his life, if something else happened to force Jensen away … the possibilities ran on and on.

He keeps an eye out for anything and anyone as he creeps up to the Midland Mechanics plant. He climbs the fire escape on the south end, planning to knock on the exit door from the roof to where he now knows Jensen lives. Yet, as soon as he is halfway over the short wall, he spots Jensen standing at the northeast corner and soaking in the view ahead of him. Jared’s foot gets stuck on rough brick as he takes his last step over the top, rubbing then smacking the top metal rung of the ladder. 

Jensen’s chuckle echoes in the quiet night. “You really know how to make an entrance.”

Thankful Jensen has yet turned around, Jared takes his time to cross the roof and let his light blush settle down before he sidles up to Jensen. As he approaches, Jensen’s wings dip out of his jacket and down to the ground. Feathers flutter with soft swooshes and Jared keeps some space between them. “I haven’t seen you for a little while. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah, why?” Jensen says a bit too quickly.

Instead of addressing the tone, Jared nods towards Jensen’s back. “The wings are a bit obvious.”

Jensen smiles and lets his wings rest low, barely swaying, as if the slight wind is the only thing moving each quill. “It’s just a busy night out there.”

Jared follows Jensen’s line of sight to the broken skyline and the bend of the lake’s coast. Hundreds of web sites and old books detail how Chicago’s high rises built a prestigious horizon that was photographed from any number of angles. Today, half the skyscrapers present broken floors and dark windows. One of the few remaining fixtures is Willis Tower, which the few remaining big businesses now inhabit. Immediately, Jared recalls the jumps he took off the top of that building, and how his confidence grew each time that Jensen would snatch him up in the nick of time then fly them around the city for views that no camera could ever capture.

“It looks pretty quiet,” Jared says finally. “I mean, it’s all fairly quiet this time of night.”

“It can’t _look_ quiet.”

“Sure it can,” he replies with a smile. “I’m looking and it all seems quiet.”

Jensen lightly chuckles, but doesn’t really answer. He continues to search far into the distance, and Jared thinks to himself that Jensen certainly looks noisy, like his mind is racing with loud thoughts that keep him busy. 

While Jared can appreciate the silence between them, the chance to stand beside Jensen and know that he is finally welcomed in Jensen’s presence is the real advantage here. It is no longer about being close to the Black Falcon and learning about his talents, to count the endless feathers, or be mesmerized by standing so near an Altered. It is all about Jensen and Jared’s growing attraction to the man. 

“So, what’s so busy out there?” Jared asks, just as surprised at the softness in his voice as Jensen seems to be with his quick glance over.

“It’s hard to explain.”

“Well, the good thing is that I’m kind of smart.”

Jensen flashes Jared a quick smile that disappears as soon as it appears. “See, the funny thing is …” Then Jensen drifts off when his attention is caught on something far in the distance. He’s intently watching while his wings pop back out, agitatedly sweeping along the roof. 

When Jared looks up, he spots an object moving far ahead and high above them. It falls quickly then he sees wings flare out, swinging rapidly as it comes at them far too fast for Jared to find the words to speak before Jensen’s own wings extend. One wraps around Jared along with Jensen’s arms, and Jensen drags them to the far end of the roof, hovering above it as Tahmoh comes right at them. 

Jensen fails to sweep them out of his path and Tahmoh smacks into them, forcing them to fall over the side of the building. A haunting, echoing laughter fills the air along with Jensen’s huffs and groans as they flip around and bang into the building across the alley. Before they hit the ground, Jensen’s wing protectively tightens around Jared and the other flaps loud and hard to bring them back above the Sonic Motors warehouse. He carries them both higher into the air and flies eastward to Downtown. 

Jared fumbles within the hold just as Jensen’s wing struggles to keep him protected while he tries to steer and fly them ahead of Tahmoh hot on their tail.

“Hold on tight,” Jensen orders with his brow set in a straight line and his jaw clenching with the effort of carrying them on.

“Hold on to _what_?” Through the confusion and hustle of their flight—unlike any Jensen has taken him on before—Jared runs his hands along feathery vanes until he finds a branch to wrap his fingers around. The closest joint bends tight so Jared has a firmer line to hold onto, and he closes his eyes as tightly as possible while fighting the dizziness and nausea taking over. 

He’s aware of the city noise surrounding them as they near the Loop and the wind breaks different when Jensen flies them between buildings. Opening his eyes, Jared is nearly blinded by the bright lights they pass of tall street lamps and strobe lights trailing loose circles as they pass the Water Tower. 

That is when Tahmoh sweeps in closer and bats a wing at them, and Jensen swings them away from a second hit. Jared sees Tahmoh flying above them, wagging his wings to keep him in place, but he can’t see much else before Jensen’s wing wraps tight around his whole body and they smack into the old Trump Tower. Twenty feet before they smash into the ground, Jensen turns them over and flies between buildings, avoiding the sharp lines of steel and glass until he can zig-zag through the north end of Michigan Avenue then head out east. 

Tahmoh still finds them and bats them a few more times until Jensen finally loses control of the flight and they turn a tailspin down to Goose Island, cornered in by the dingy split of the Chicago River’s North Branch. 

This fall is like no others they’ve taken together. Jared is not free falling and Jensen is not going to swoop in to catch him. Instead they’re rolling into one another and Jensen’s arms and wings are just barely keeping Jared upright as Jensen also fights to find his equilibrium. They smash into another building and Jensen’s wings fling out, no longer protecting Jared, yet they curl around him as they near the ground. Jensen rolls them over so his back and wings take most of the impact, and the momentum makes them turn over a few more times until one wing pushes against an old recycling facility to stop them.

Jared has been knocked around, his head aches, and he’s afraid to move any muscle in case he’ll pull or break something worse than it could already be. There is also the worry of Tahmoh coming down after them, but his brain is too foggy to start messaging the rest of his body to get up and moving.

Jensen groans and turns into Jared with his wing tucking around Jared’s side to nestle him into the curve of it. “You okay?” he asks with a huff.

“Is he gone?” Jared asks instead, more afraid of further attacks than figuring out what and how many bones he’s broken. 

Jensen furiously looks around them, then tips his head up towards the sky. “I’m pretty sure he is. He hates the River anyway.”

“He hates the River?”

“Afraid of water. Talk about kryptonite.” After a quick breath, he worriedly asks, “Are you okay?” 

Everything is still mush in Jared’s head. “I don’t know.”

His eyes widen and he looks up and down to search for injuries. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know.” Jared roughly coughs, nearly choking when he recognizes the harsh pressure from the wind being knocked out of him, then finally touches his head and face in case there are cuts or blood. “I feel kind of numb all over. _Fuck_.”

“Are you okay?” Jensen asks again, more worried this time.

Jared takes a quick inventory as he moves as slightly as possible, and figures he’s banged up, but okay on the whole. “Yeah, I think so. You?”

“I’m fine,” he insists. “So long as you are.”

The intensity, the distress, in Jensen’s voice brings Jared to attention. They’re now staring at one another, and any other time Jared would turn away once it became too much, but he can’t make himself. He can barely move or breathe, pinned down by Jensen’s deep gaze.

“I think you were right,” Jensen mumbles.

“About?”

“Falling really is the hardest part.”

Surely, it is, and Jared had said so after his first leap off Willis Tower. Yet, there is something more powerful in Jensen’s words, his tone, his eyes. Jensen bites his lower lip and his face begins to turn away even as his eyes stay with Jared’s.

Just then, the meaning clicks, and Jared reaches up for Jensen’s face and pulls him down into a kiss. 

Jensen easily moves into it with both wings down curling around Jared and cocooning them both in a warm haze. Jensen’s hands feel even warmer when they touch Jared’s neck, over his collarbone in the opening of his shirt, and back again, as if he can’t not touch Jared’s bare skin, and Jared definitely knows the feeling because he holds Jensen firmly in place to explore the width of Jensen’s mouth.

The kiss deepens as Jensen presses his tongue against Jared’s and lightly moans. Jared returns the sound, loving how they are both so attuned to this moment, that Jared has not been walking alone to this point, that Jensen has been in step with him along the way. 

Jensen hums as he pulls away and makes an interrupting noise when Jared tries to reel him back in. “I’d love to keep this up, but—”

“But nothing,” Jared insists, hands slipping to the back of Jensen’s head.

With a chuckle, Jensen leans further back and ruefully shakes his head. “But we ought to get out of here.”

“And where do we go?”

“I’ve got a guy.”

“You’ve got a guy?” Jared asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Of course I do.” Jensen smirks and nods. “You think I’ve lasted this long in this city without a couple tricks up my sleeve?” Jensen sweeps Jared up quickly and gets a few feet off the ground. “Hang on tight. We’re gonna go a little fast.” His wink really seals it for Jared.

They soar far above the city, where every light is just a tiny dot below. Jared alternates between watching everything pass below them and looking at Jensen. Whenever he finds Jensen looking back, he frowns playfully.

“Keep your eyes on the road.”

“You mean the clouds?” Suddenly Jensen brings them up through fluffy white and there is an ethereal glow around them. 

“Now you’re just showing off,” Jared snarks. 

“It’s called hiding. We’re on the run after all.”

“Is Tahmoh really that intent to follow us?”

Jensen quirks his lips and gets back to watching ahead of them. “That’s the funny thing.”

He doesn’t say more and Jared is nearly afraid to ask, so he waits until Jensen is done flying them to the North Side and isn’t too busy steering them thousands of feet off the ground.

Somewhere around Logan Square, Jensen steers them east and reduces their altitude until they settle down in the Rogers Park neighborhood just before the Union Pacific rail lines. As soon as they can stand, Jensen marches down the gangway between two-story houses that have long stood empty. Jared follows while checking the scene around them and somehow it’s more eerie to be completely alone here with no idea what they’re doing. 

Jensen takes a few steps down to a back entrance, knocks four times, pauses, and knocks twice more. A knock replies from inside and Jensen says, “The shepherd leads the flock.”

Someone grunts from the other side then a tight, proper British accent says, “That is the worst one yet.”

A smile flashes across Jensen’s face as Jared narrows his eyes. Then Jared whispers, “The shepherd leads the flock?”

“It’s kind of an inside joke,” Jensen replies over his shoulder as a number of locks unhinge before the door opens.

“And what kind of trouble have you brought me?” There stands a shorter man with dark hair and even darker five o’clock shadow. “ _Oh_ ,” he adds with interest. “Looks like you’ve found yourself a toy.”

“Are we gonna dance in the doorway or you gonna let us in?” Jensen asks with a sigh. He’s still smiling, though, so Jared is extremely curious in this visit.

“Enter at your own risk,” the man says as he steps aside. He shuts the door and Jared watches him quickly close off six locks and set two chains across the door. When he’s done, he sizes Jared up and smirks. “He’s a big one. Surprised you could make it all this way without pulling a muscle.”

Jared makes a face and glances to Jensen with a hand out in question. 

Jensen smiles and shakes his head good naturedly. “Don’t mind Shep. He’s kind of an ass.”

“And not called Shep.”

“He hates the nickname,” Jensen stage whispers to Jared then gives proper introductions. “Jared, Mark Sheppard. Jack of all trades, master of none. Except the city’s Altered’s populace.”

“Really?” Jared asks, turning to Mark and lining up a dozen or so questions.

Mark puts his hands up. “Now, now. Don’t get too excited, Big Foot. One visit to the palace does not give you a seat at the Round Table.” He slips his hands into his slacks and rocks back on his heels. “So, _Jen_ , what can I do you for this fine evening?” Jensen groans then Mark grins and nudges Jared elbow. “I’m not the only one with a sweet tag.”

“Well, _Shep_ , I’m having a bit of trouble with Tahmoh.”

“Again?”

Jensen glances at Jared and shakes his head. “Can you help?”

Mark walks further into the low basement and Jensen follows, meaning Jared does, too, still too out of place to say anything. He just goes along with the situation. Towards the front of the house is a large compu-screen with multiple browsers and windows open, along with electronics boxes lining a table below the screen. Lights on the boxes hold steading or blink at outrageous sequences. A worn out black leather chair is set before it, and Mark smoothly swings it around to land in the seat. He rests his elbows on the arms and folds his hands together near his chin. “I can help, yes. But it might not be the help you want.”

“What does that mean?” Jensen asks while leaning from one foot to the other. It’s the first time Jared has ever seen him unsteady and nervous.

“Sometimes the services you seek are not the ones that you require.”

Knowing that Mark has said the same thing, and finding himself dying to speak, Jared finally opens his mouth. “But what does that _mean_?”

“Oh, the Scarecrow speaks!” Mark cries with feigned surprise. 

“That doesn’t even make any sense.” 

“All tall and rickety,” he explains with a shrug.

“I’m not tall and rickety—”

“You are tall,” Jensen says. Jared huffs, but Jensen just shrugs and says, “Well you _are_.”

“Is this the funny thing you were hinting at?” Jared asks

“Not quite. See, Tahmoh—” 

“Is the funny thing,” Mark interrupts. “Well, not funny, so much as a nuisance. See, after Jensen here established himself as the fabled Black Falcon, trademark, he was riddled with attention and admirers. Especially of the jealous kind.”

Jensen grumbles, “I was getting to it. In better words.”

Mark waves a hand. “Then go on, Jen.”

Jensen turns to Jared, even tugs Jared around to fully face him. “The funny thing that I never wanted to explain was that all the bad stuff people put on me? The accidents and terrorizing malls and the residents? It was Tahmoh. He hated that I had this attention, that I was … accepted by the City. He didn’t want me to have that. He only wanted it to be us.”

None of this makes sense in his brain. Especially the jealousy aspect, and he wants to ask about that, but he’s also warring with the satisfaction that Jensen was never behind the negative stories. “I’ve never heard of Tahmoh before all this started happening.”

“Neither has anyone else.”

“Except us,” Mark says as he hits a few keys on the keyboard. Now the compu-screen pops to life with a myriad of photos showing Tahmoh in all of his winged glory. Shorter, light brown hair and grey feathers only a few shades lighter than Jensen’s. 

Jared steps up to the screen and studies each of the pictures. “How did he go under the radar for so long?”

“Because the camera really loves Jen. He’s surely the prettiest of them all.”

Jensen sighs and moves closer to them. “This isn’t helping.”

“I told you that my assistance may not be entirely what you’re looking for.”

“Then what _are_ you able to help with?”

Mark simply gives them a wily grin and taps his folded hands to his mouth. After the drawn out pause, he says, “Give me twenty four hours and you’ll see.”

“That’s it?” Jared asks with a disbelieving laugh.

“Yes, that’s it, Rapunzel.”

Jared glares at Mark, even as Jensen pats Jared’s shoulder and ushers them out of the basement and back to ground level.

“That guy’s kind of a dick,” Jared says once he thinks they are out of ear shot.

“Yeah, he is. But there’s a certain kind of charm to him. And he works magic like you wouldn’t believe.”

“If you insist.”

“I do.”

Despite his reflex to make more sarcastic jokes, he knows he wants to—and can—trust Jensen now, so he does. “So what now?”

“You got a place we can hide?”

Avoiding the skies and being spotted by Tahmoh, Jared and Jensen take to the streets and head to Jared’s house. They remain quiet, and it is slightly uncomfortable as questions swirl in Jared’s head. He wants to ask so much about Tahmoh, who Mark really is and how Jensen knows him, what kind of help the Englishman can provide them, and what kind of help was Jensen even expecting in the first place.

There is an underlying current of anxiety that Jared will not like any of the answers Jensen could provide, so Jared buries down every word with his head up and eyes on alert.

When they make Jared’s front door, Jensen turns to the street and searches for longer than it takes Jared to get the locks and the door open. He stands in the doorway and watches Jensen, wondering if Jensen can sense more trouble out there, or if he is perhaps nervous to be here. They have traipsed across the city, and Jared has joined Jensen on the Midland Mechanics roof, but neither have ever stepped foot inside each other's homes. 

This feels like a bigger step than when Jared impulsively pulled Jensen in and finally succumbed to all of his desires. He reminds himself that Jensen fought back in that kiss with equal ferocity, so this can’t be of that great a worry.

“Is there something there?” Jared asks quietly as nerves tingle beneath his skin. 

“No.” Jensen’s answer is firm, yet he does not move an inch.

“Do I have to formally invite you inside?” he asks awkwardly.

With a strange look, Jensen watches Jared. “What? Like I’m a vampire?”

He nervously chuckles and steps further inside. “No, I just thought … I don’t know what I thought,” he finishes when Jensen finally enters the front hallway. 

Jared doesn’t bother with any lights, a deep-seated worry keeping him from drawing any attention to them, even from his neighbors. They walk into the living room and Jared pulls all of the draperies across the picture window, the side window facing another bungalow, and two more in the attached dining room. 

“Well, now I’m blind as a bat,” Jensen jokes.

Jared turns on a small tableside lamp and frowns. “Sorry. I was just worried that …” he trails off.

“I’m really not a vampire, you know.”

“No, I know. Of course I know that.”

Jensen offers him a small smile and breathes deep then winces and touches his chest. 

In a few quick steps, Jared closes the space between them. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Jensen grumbles, “I just think the adrenaline’s wearing off and now the battle wounds are a bit more obvious.”

“Let me see,” he insists while reaching for the collar of Jensen’s jacket. He stops when Jensen takes a short step back. “Sorry,” he apologies again, softer this time. 

“No, it’s fine. I’m sorry.” He takes the jacket down one arm, then slowly peels it down the one that is obviously in pain. “I’m just not used to this.”

“Used to what?”

“Being around normals.”

Feelings compete within Jared’s chest at guilt and confusion over Jensen’s statement and the sight of Jensen down to just one layer. It’s a thin, navy blue tee that molds to the straight plane of Jensen’s chest and shoulders, but it’s also damp at his collarbone. 

Jared brings a bar stool from his dining set, instructs Jensen to sit, takes his jacket and sets it on the table, then hunts through the kitchen for towels and a bottle of water. When he returns to the front of the house, his lungs cease operation at the sight of Jensen perched on the chair with his jeans tight around spread legs and his torso barely leaning against the chair back. 

Jared swallows hard, loudly it seems, then clears his throat as he finally approaches. Nerves seize him from doing anything other than holding the dish towels and water bottle out for Jensen. “You want to do it yourself?”

Jensen licks his lower lip and glances away. “Can you help me with the shirt?”

“Of course, yeah. Whatever you need.”

With slow hands, he shucks the cotton up, and Jensen helps it up over his shoulder. Jensen winces and sucks a painful breath through his teeth. A moment later his wings drop down, yet stay closely folded to Jensen’s back. Jared realizes the back of the chair is limiting their release, so he leads Jensen to spin around in the chair. It allows Jensen to sit more comfortably, but it also allows Jared to see the crooked bend of feathers and broken quills of the wing Jensen had used to keep them flying through the entire ruckus with Tahmoh.

“Oh, Jensen,” he whispers as his fingers lightly coast over the wounded wing. It quickly flutters while Jensen’s upper body tenses, muscles clenching beneath smooth skin. “I’m sorry. Again,” he stupidly adds. 

Jensen sadly chuckles. “You should really stop apologizing.”

“Alright,” Jared laughs back. “I’m zipping my lip now.”

“Is that all it takes to shut you up?” he jokes.

Jared tries again to touch the battered wing while watching the tension in Jensen’s shoulders hold steady then slowly, ever slowly, give way. The feathers spread in various directions, as if shaking out the strain, and Jared smiles at the slight tickle of each quill against his knuckles. 

“Does it hurt?”

“Faintly, yeah,” Jensen murmurs as he tips his head down. 

“Is it okay?” Jared asks carefully. “For me to touch them?”

The wing drops a foot or two, and Jared is certain he has gone too far. Except he sees how Jensen’s back relaxes and the wing loosens its joints as well. Jared can follow the top vane as it bends down to where it is attached to Jensen’s lower back. He had always imagined a full spread of wings down Jensen’s spine, from the back of the neck down to the waist. It’s odd to see how each wing is fused within the lower curve of Jensen’s back, just inches above his waist. 

Once Jared has traced the main vane, he drifts his palm over the feathers, all the way down to the pointed end of Jensen’s wing. He does it again, going with the line of the feathers and lets his fingers slip between them when Jensen relaxes even more and leans forward to the back of the chair. 

“Is this still okay?” Jared asks, still unsure of what and how much he can do here, how far he can go.

Jensen hums, and as Jared awaits a real answer, their breathing sounds thunderous in the room, echoing off hard walls and wood floors. Jared’s hand stalls and Jensen turns just slight enough to look at Jared from the corner of his eye. “Can you … do you think …”

“I can, whatever,” Jared replies honestly. He can and will do most anything Jensen asks of him.

With a solemn nod, Jensen bites the corner of his mouth. “You need to pull them out. The bad feathers, they should come out before they get worse.”

“Oh, huh,” he says stupidly as he sets his fingers around a dusty grey feather’s barbs that are cracked and hanging loosely. “I guess I thought they’d just fall out like hair.”

Jensen chuckles, his back muscles rolling with the movement, and Jared thinks he is in a certain kind of hell right now to be faced with this imagery yet needing to remain serious and helpful. “Yeah, they will, but not before they take a few friends with them.”

“Oh, like plants.” Jared quickly plucks the feather and cringes when he sees Jensen flinch. “Like how bad leaves spread the disease.”

“Yeah, kinda like that. Ow!” Jensen whines when Jared picks three feathers in quick succession.

Jared immediately apologizes and rubs at the newly empty spot on the wing’s arm. 

Jensen immediately groans, and then his voice drops low, so low that Jared wonders if they’re in danger. “Jared, you should probably stop that.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he insists with his hands in the air, as if Jensen can see him surrender.

Lightly laughing, Jensen sits up straight and folds his wings in a few feet to his back. “It’s not bad. Not at all. Though … I guess that’s the bad part.”

“If it’s not bad then how is it …” Jared’s mind replays the low groan, the steady rumble from Jensen’s throat, and heat flares in his belly. He certainly wishes he had a front row seat for that. “Oh, I see.”

Jensen drops his head and chuckles to himself. “If only you could.”

Jared remains silent until he realizes just what Jensen must be looking at. “ _Oh_ … Well, uh,” and he clears his throat to speak more clearly. “I don’t think that could ever be the bad part.”

His wings pull in even closer to his back and now Jensen glances over his shoulder and the top joint of the wing. Jared does his best to level Jensen with the most engaged look possible, hoping all of his intentions are clear in his eyes. 

“It actually sounds like the good part,” Jared murmurs.

Slowly, far too slowly for Jared’s liking, Jensen rises from the bar stool and faces him. Just as Jensen’s hand comes up to Jared’s face, his wing rises to brush along Jared’s shoulder. Jared shivers under the duality of Jensen’s touches, yet leans into both his palm and his wing. “It can be,” Jensen finally replies. “If not a little weird at times.”

Jared runs the back of his hand along the feathers at his side, all while keeping eye contact with Jensen. It seems impossible to break the touch or the gaze, and Jared has no intention in trying to. “Why weird?”

“A guy with wings?” he asks with a tiny, playful, yet still timid smile. “It’s not something you see every day.”

He matches Jensen’s smile. “Ain’t that the truth?”

Jensen’s wing slips around Jared’s back, brushing along the length of his spine, and Jared’s skin goes warm all over with the light touch of each feather. Then he shivers and Jensen’s smile grows. Less predatory and more amused, almost mocking. “Someone’s a little ticklish, huh?”

“Just shut up and kiss me,” Jared says with a roll of his eyes. Though he barely gets the words out before Jensen’s lips are taking his. Jared releases a muffled sound of surprise, but quickly recovers.

As Jensen’s wings wrap around Jared’s torso, fully enveloping him, Jared brings his hands up along Jensen’s sides and slides them around his ribs. Beneath one hand is hot, smooth skin, and he follows it all the way back to the joint of Jensen’s wings. Jensen hums and slips back from the kiss just slightly, as if losing his place in it, as Jared’s fingers stroke back and forth at the joint.

What had started as curiosity turns into foreplay as Jensen’s mouth goes slack and Jared now takes control of the kiss. He keeps moving his fingers along the ridge of the wing, bringing his other hand around to touch the other side. Their bodies are close, barely an inch between them, and with every little movement, their chests and stomachs touch. Jared lets out tiny noises whenever it happens, so grateful they are on the same page, with the same feelings. 

Feathers sweep along Jensen’s back, fluttering in and out as Jensen’s moans grow louder and he finally pulls away from Jared’s lips and his body, just far enough out of reach.

“I’m sorry,” Jared says immediately.

Jensen’s eyebrows rise and he tips his head to the side in regard. “What did I say about apologizing?”

“I don’t really know,” he replies with a laugh. “My memory is a little fuzzy right now.”

“I wonder why.”

“Yeah, and maybe we should get back to that.” Jared moves forward but Jensen steps back just as quickly while his wings flip back up into hiding. 

“About that … I think we should take it a bit slow.”

Jared chuckles then huffs when he realizes Jensen isn’t joking. “We’re both adults. I’m not some wilted flower. I can handle this.”

“I know you can.” Jensen pauses, rubbing his bottom lip then over his jaw. “But I can’t.”

Jared thinks about sitting down for this kind of conversation, but the nearest thing to him is the floor, which does not seem highly useful. “What does that mean?”

“Just that,” Jensen says with a shrug then pauses before fully explaining. “The wings, they kind of get in the way, and it’s always awkward, and weird. It’s really kinda scary.”

“Sex scares you?”

“No!” Jensen nearly yelps, then lowers his voice. “No, it doesn’t scare me. It tends to scare the guy on the other end.”

Now Jared is curious about the nature of sex with a winged man, and what the real effects are of touching the spine, joints, and vanes. In the far reaches of his mind, he wonders about Jensen’s previous partners, but quickly washes that away with the image of Jensen standing before him all flushed and almost ready to go. “Like how?”

Jensen turns his hands over in the air as he attempts to explain, and Jared is more interested, and amused, in how awkward Jensen appears as he does it. Jensen—both as the Black Falcon and as himself—has shown nothing but confidence and carries himself perfectly well. This is so unlike him. “Like, they come out and get all flustered to the point that they are no longer under my control.”

Jared stares at Jensen, drawing that image in his head, and smirks. “I don’t know, but that sounds pretty hot.”

“You say that now, but you’ll see when it happens.”

“Can’t wait,” he says in a low voice. And he really can’t. They have been moving to this point for weeks, with Jensen finally letting Jared in, and Jared sticking right alongside him. This has to happen tonight.

Jensen nearly does a double take, then straightens his stance to a thin line from his shoulders down to his toes. “Are you sure about that?”

“I’ve been sure about it for weeks.” And he certainly has been, even when tonight, right now, will mean more to him than any chance dangling in front of him in the past. This is not the first time he’s considered it.

With a big heave of his chest, Jensen takes a deep inhale and long exhale, as if preparing himself for the event. Still, he jokes, “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“My lips are sealed,” Jared answers while miming the movement.

“That’ll really limit us, you know.”

Jared laughs and finally steps up to Jensen to kiss him. This time he shows patience in a slow roll of his tongue around Jensen’s, and in gently holding his face by the jaw. There is no rushing here when they both know where they are heading—right to Jared’s bedroom and onto bigger, and better, things. With fewer clothes and more, much more skin.

He is the first to pull away from the kiss when Jensen attempts to pull Jared up off the ground with his stronger wing. “You don’t need to show off anymore,” Jared points out.

“I was just trying to be efficient.” 

When Jensen winks, Jared has no reason to complain, or stop them, or even say a word. He simply leans into Jensen’s body and gets them back to kissing, all while Jensen carries them to bed.

Jensen helps Jared out of his shirt, and Jared helps Jensen out of his jeans. He pauses as he pulls Jensen’s underwear down to stare at the hardness and shape of Jensen’s dick. He’s not sure what he had imagined, perhaps some other sort of alteration, but he needn’t worry in any manner and slowly smiles. He’s really here with Jensen, in bed, and ready to have his way with him. 

Overexcited, Jared turns Jensen to his back and kisses down Jensen’s chest until he can lick over the head of Jensen’s dick. Jensen sits up and spreads his legs with a small moan, which both halts and entices Jared, who sits up as well. 

“What is it?”

Jensen’s already short of breath with his chest expanding quickly. “I just … I have a hard time on my back.”

“From wha—oh!” Jared chuckles nervously, feeling ridiculous for not recognizing the issue, especially now that Jensen’s wings are slowly stretching out. On his knees, Jared moves around to Jensen’s back. His palms coast across the feathers and he may be imagining the soft flutter of the barbs against his skin, but it makes him shiver nonetheless. Jensen, too, it seems. “Is this okay?” he asks anyway.

“More than,” he answers on a heavy breath. His head drops when Jared continues to stroke the feathers and vanes, letting his fingers curl around them as if running them through hair. Jensen’s breathing grows loud until he twists around, grabs Jared by the neck, and reels him in for a deep, wet, dirty kiss that knocks the air right out of Jared’s lungs. 

Jared falls back to the bed with Jensen hovering over him, wings spreading high and wide. The whole room is now shadowed by the span of the feathers and Jared slows the kiss to stare. 

Jensen draws the wings in to his sides, and Jared goes to reverse that by kissing Jensen once again and reaching down to cup Jensen’s cock. The wings flap open and as Jensen leans down into the kiss and Jared’s grip around him, the wings settle lower as if blanketing the entire bed.

They’re shrouded in darkness with thin patches of light cutting between feathers. Jared loses most of his consciousness of what exactly is happening, especially when Jensen curls his fingers around Jared’s dick and tugs at a steady rhythm. The wings slowly wave, like a tiny tremor runs through each feather, until they turn up and surround them both entirely, followed by Jensen’s bitten-off shout. Then he’s coming between them.

Jared covers Jensen’s hand on his own dick and strokes quickly to get himself off. The feathers lightly patting his cheeks as Jensen recovers helps Jared along and he pants through his orgasm until Jensen takes over his mouth in another heated kiss.

Once it winds down, Jensen shifts to Jared’s side, pulling his wings back in. He seems anxious about them, about what just happened, and Jared assures him it’s okay while running his hand up and down Jensen’s back, fingers trailing along the spine where the wings are now hiding.

“It was good,” Jared murmurs. 

“Not too much?” Jensen asks, a bit dry.

Jared trails his hand to the swell of Jensen’s ass. “Not enough.” He thinks about washing up, but rather appreciates the warmth of Jensen along his side, and he falls asleep just like this.

A few hours later, Jared is woken by the brush of Jensen’s wing across his back. It blankets him, has been for a while, but the quick movement against his skin alerts him. Jensen appears to still be asleep, but Jared turns to his side to watch him sleep.

The proximity of them right now makes his mind travel through all that happened this evening to bring them here, especially the attack and the long, tremulous fall at Goose Island. So when Jensen briefly wakes, Jared dares to ask, “What happened with Tahmoh?”

Jensen’s arched eyebrow is his only response.

“At Sheppard’s … You said he didn’t like that you had other attention, that he wanted it to be just the two of you.”

He shifts up to rest his elbow against the mattress and looks across the room. Even as he talks quite evenly, he avoids Jared’s gaze the entire time. “We first met out west where there weren’t that many Altereds, at least not out and obvious. So we decided to head east to be among more people, find some that were like us. We’ve kind of been in each other’s pockets for a long time now, and even as things have changed, he’s still really protective.”

“Protective of what?”

Jensen glances toward Jared, but still won’t look him in the eye. “Of our kind, our neighborhood … of me.”

Jared pushes himself up to sit against the headboard. It feels entirely wrong to remain so intimately close as his mind races around at the possibilities of Tahmoh and Jensen’s relationship. “Are you together?”

“No,” Jensen answers immediately, finally meeting Jared’s eyes. “We were, once, a long while ago. Back when we first came here and didn’t have anyone else.” He nearly cringes as he seems to continue the next statement in his head, unwilling to share with Jared. 

“That’s the whole ‘things have changed’ bit?”

Jensen chuckles to himself. “Yeah, I guess. We just had two different ideas of what being here meant. He looked at it like having his own village in Canaryville, where the Altereds could gather and hang out, have our own little palace in one of those warehouses. He thought we should stay there and build up our own society.”

Jared mentally walks through that neighborhood and now imagines a different Altered holding court at those abandoned facilities. He imagines each one standing atop the buildings and guarding the neighborhood limits from others not their kind. It’s too easy to see in his mind, and he hates it at the same time. “And you?” Jared asks. 

Jensen slowly considers him, eyes searching Jared’s face. 

“What did you want?”

“To be free,” he says quietly before putting more into his declaration. “I wanted to be free and on my own and able to do whatever I could, whenever I wanted to. I didn’t want to hide among all the others. I wanted to be free to roam the City and be a real citizen.”

With a nod, Jared smiles at him and quietly says, “I think you’ve done that.”

“Except with Tahmoh getting in the way of it all. Creating trouble and putting a greater divide between the Altereds and the normals.”

“Well, despite him … you stayed out in the City, flew wherever you wanted, and we still met.”

Again, Jensen searches Jared’s eyes for something further, maybe real meaning behind what he’s said or a crack in his feelings. “And now I can’t lose you, can I?”

Jared smiles softly. “I hope not.”

**PART SIX**

Just like the country was founded from east to west, so travelled news of the Altereds. Many sprang up in New York City with its vast lands and myriad of industries popping up then failing along the Hudson River. Within its four hundred and sixty-nine square miles, it was impossible to track every Altered, and so many had planted roots in neighborhoods left behind by normals that moved out to the suburbs where cleaner resources and better jobs were available.

New York City had always been one of the country’s greatest melting pots, and reflected a variety of nationalities, religions, and lifestyles. It was a great fit for the spectrum of Altereds looking for a place to settle.

Still, Altereds existed all across the U.S., and it appeared as though tolerance of their existence dwindled the further west one went. Out on the West Coast, normals idealized their lives and took great pride in the beauty of the coastal regions. Many banded together to prohibit Altereds from residing in their areas by sheer will alone. 

So, many Altereds travelled from west to east to find larger towns to accept them. Some stopped in Phoenix or Houston, if they could handle the extreme heat of summer, while others continued further to Chicago, Detroit, and Philadelphia where tall, abandoned buildings and large industrial neighborhoods granted them the perfect escape from detection. 

Just as the Altereds fled to the east, normals went west and granted more room for the Altereds to set up camp and make a life for themselves when they’d had enough intolerance. East of the Appalachians seemed like a pipe dream, a far off travel, but many still wondered what greatness it held.

In the late morning, Jared wakes to soft talking far off in the hallway. He also wakes in an empty bed and memories of Jensen’s velvety skin and excitable wings. Before he can fully sit up, Jensen shows up in the bedroom doorway, and there’s a brief pang of disappointment that he’s back in his jeans and t-shirt.

Jensen drops a disposal satellite phone to Jared’s dresser, face drawn tight. Jared frowns with concern over who Jensen was talking with. “Is everything okay?”

“Yea. I was just checking with Shep for what he could do.” Jensen lightly smiles and gets into bed beside Jared. 

“What is it?”

“It’s kind of a big deal.” When Jared looks to Jensen, an awkward silence settles between them until Jensen releases a breath and carefully smiles. “And potentially illegal, but …”

Jared scratches the back of his head, blinking quickly, and praying this is all still part of his dream of soaring across the Atlantic, held tightly in Jensen’s arms. Just before waking, he’d been imagining them escaping to far lands Jared only knows from history books and classic travel magazines his mom used to collect. But now, with Jensen’s guilty eyes, he knows they’re nowhere near a happy ending.

“It’s a way to get away,” Jensen says. “My chip.”

“Your what?” Jared sits up quickly, mind spinning. “I thought it was all a joke that the Altereds were still chipped?”

“No, not a joke. That’s what Shep does … he helps track us, to ensure we’re staying where we’re registered. But he also helps to keep us out of trouble on occasion.”

“So what would he do with your chip?”

Jensen takes a deep breath. “Right now, he’s blocking my link to keep Tahmoh from tracking us himself. To keep him away from us, but he can’t do that forever.”

“Tahmoh would track you?”

“He worked closely with Shep, kind of running our area. And now Shep knows Tahmoh has to be stopped. There’s too much brewing inside him, and he won’t quit just because someone asks him to.”

Jared’s mind turns over, and over, and over, just like his stomach spins somersaults. In the last twenty four hours, he’s learned more about the Altereds, about Jensen, and about just how much trouble Tahmoh really is … and now he’s still stuck in the center of it. Jared doesn’t see a way to escape the threat, except to walk away from Jensen. He’s not ready to do that now that he has him. “So what happens next?”

Jensen quickly smiles and leans forward to press a firm kiss to Jared’s mouth. “Shep thinks he can mask my link, make it set to a different profile.”

His stomach sinks at that, envisioning terrible repercussions to come from changing his chip and profile. “Is that going to work?”

“I sure hope so.”

Jared holds his breath before asking, “And what if it doesn’t?”

Jensen clears his throat, as if equally nervous with this turn of events. “Remove my chip?”

If possible, Jared’s stomach now pools down around his feet. “Are you serious?”

Jensen goes silent, eyes slanting away in thought. 

Jared holds his breath as he also considers their options. Nothing is clear cut and obvious, or easy. “What if we just go away?”

Jensen furrows his brow. “To where?”

“To anywhere!” Jared insists with a nervous smile. “New York, Italy, Australia, I’m not picky.”

“That’s a lot of flying, Jared,” he laughs, just as anxious as Jared feels. “And surely Tahmoh could follow us to any of those places.”

Jared gulps and stares at Jensen. “You think he would?”

“I never thought he’d come after us like he did yesterday … so who really knows?”

“So, we’re stuck with a bitter, vicious, flying ex-boyfriend?”

“You don’t have to be involved in this,” Jensen insists. “This is my personal business, and Tahmoh’s anger is on me.”

“It’s on me, too,” he pushes. “I’ll hardly forget what happened last night and how either of us could’ve died.”

“I wouldn’t let you die,” Jensen says just as strongly. “But at the same time, you can’t be involved in this anymore. It’s all too dangerous.”

Jared stares at Jensen’s back as he’s quickly turned away, dropping his feet to the floor and hanging his head down between his shoulders. He’s at a loss for words, especially when Jensen rises and puts his boots on, shrugs into his jacket, and runs a hand through his hair. “Jensen,” is the only thing he can wrench out of mouth. 

Once Jensen has left the bedroom, Jared tosses on jeans and a t-shirt, anything off the floor and within reach, and follows Jensen. He has to go as far as out of the house, down the stairs, and onto the sidewalk. “Jensen, wait!” he shouts once Jensen’s wings spread and he takes off from the ground. 

“Yes, Jensen,” a voice calls from behind Jared. “Please do wait to witness the fun!”

Jared spins around and has to look up to spot Tahmoh atop his house, wings out and slowly waving back and forth. Turning back, Jared sees Jensen has swung around and now wades in the air. Jensen’s face is set darkly with his nostrils flaring and hands in tight fists. 

There’s hardly room to sort out everything here. All that Jared knows is there are two Altereds, publicly showing their transformations on his city block, and it is bound to attract a lot of attention. Just as fear truly settles into the pit of Jared’s stomach, Tahmoh leaps off the roof, flies straight for Jared, and lifts Jared up by the center of his shirt. 

“You know,” Tahmoh says as he bring them clear up above Jared’s house, “for someone so gullible and naïve, you were incredibly hard to find.”

Jared fights against the hold, and can see Jensen flying at them to intercept, yet Tahmoh’s path changes directions so immediately and often that Jared’s overcome with dizziness and nausea. He focuses on breathing and keeping his eyes closed as they turn this way and that, all as Tahmoh speeds up to avoid Jensen, who keeps shouting at them, but never comes close enough to do anything. 

“It’s amazing what some of your coworkers really think of you. That sweet little Celine is just _so_ worried about you that she had no problem telling _your cousin_ where I could find you.”

“Oh, God,” Jared gasps, stomach in turmoil and brain practically sloshing about his skull. He can’t believe that Tahmoh had gone so low as to approach Jared’s employees, and he’s even more shocked that Celine would give him up, no matter Tahmoh’s excuses. Lightheaded, Jared can feel his arms and legs go limp, can hear Jensen calling for him, then it feels like Tahmoh has flown them into a brick wall. Except, Jared is then falling. 

As he drops towards the ground, he sees Jensen’s impact on Tahmoh throwing them both against the roof of Jared’s house. Shingles break off and pile on the ground, just like Jared is about to do … yet, Jensen speeds over to grab Jared’s wrist and immediately drag them up with rapid, loud flaps of his wings. 

Just like the night before, Tahmoh is quick to catch up, flying straight up until they’re all hundreds upon hundreds of feet in the air. Jared clutches Jensen’s jacket, and Jensen grips him just as tightly back while trying to out-fly their threat. They’ve travelled a mile or so up, yet haven’t moved more than a block to the north, and so when Tahmoh races after them and finally crashes into them, Jared and Jensen tumble down into a neighbor’s two-car garage, taking a chunk of the roof with them. 

Through the hole, Jared can see Tahmoh flying straight down at them, but it’s more threatening when he stands at the opening of the hole and glares at them. Jared fights to get up and help Jensen with a wing wedged beneath a car parked on the other side of the space, all while Tahmoh yells at them

“This would’ve all been so much easier if you’d left your little human pet alone!” When Jared glances up, he can tell that Tahmoh no longer cares about him; this fight is for Jensen, probably was all along. “You were always all about them, and how great they were, how they could help us out … and look where we are now, Jen.”

Just as they get Jensen’s wing free, Jensen says, “Get out of here, Jared,” but Jared can’t reply because Tahmoh leaps down to them. 

Tahmoh picks Jensen up by the collar of his jacket. “This isn’t about your new plaything,” he insists through clenched teeth. Then he tips his head and punches Jensen. 

When Jared reaches out to stop Tahmoh, a wing flings Jared back against the metal garage door. Jared fights to breathe, to get enough balance to move to his feet, as Tahmoh continues hitting Jensen.

“All those years, back when I let you convince me to come here, and we registered, but then you had to go make a fuss of yourself!” Tahmoh throws Jensen through the garage’s windows and to the back yard. 

The garage is down to half a roof, two walls, and a dented garage door in the shape of Jared. There is _no way_ this will go unnoticed. There’s no surprise to the shrieks of neighbors gathering in yards, on back porches, and in the alley. Jared ignores all their concern for his wellbeing, and the odd stares from those who are more leery of the whole matter; he doesn’t really blame those folks for worrying over two Altereds starting their own renovations to the neighborhood.

Tahmoh is again pulling Jensen up off the ground and tossing him against the fence separating the next yard. The chain-link fencing gives way and Jensen rolls over into the another neighbor’s yard. His wings are out, but seem unable to get Jensen off the ground. Jensen is terribly slow in his attempts to move away from Tahmoh, and he has to take more punches. 

Marching across the yard, Jared picks up a large shard of glass. He ignores the way it cuts in his hand when he grips it tight and swings down at Tahmoh, but Tahmoh’s grey wing pitches back and tosses Jared at the broken garage. Jared lands with a slide across the musty grass, but it does little to break the fall. His ribs instantly ache, and he’s twisted his knee and cut through most of his hand as he still has the glass clutched against his palm. Jared spreads out on his back, still fighting to breathe evenly. Pain stabs his side and his stomach is still tossing itself over so quickly that he’s not sure how it’s in one piece anymore. 

He’s also not sure he’ll need to care about it in the future, or any future that is, when Tahmoh appears above him. Jared’s heart stops at the cruel smile on Tahmoh’s face, and how slowly he reaches for Jared, as if there is all the time in the world to well and truly take his life. 

“Please, stop,” Jared whimpers. 

Tahmoh’s hands are just inches from grabbing Jared’s shirt to haul him up again, yet he doesn’t move. Merely tips his head to the side in thought. 

Jared’s eyes burn, his legs are both full of white-hot pain, his head pounds, and yet he still pleads for his, and Jensen’s, life. “Just stop, please. You don’t need to do this.”

Now Tahmoh grabs Jared’s shirt and pulls him up to sit, making Jared moan in pain. “Need to? Of course I don’t _need_ to do this. But I certainly want to.”

“But why?” Jared asks desperately. “I never did anything to you.”

“You took him from me.” Tahmoh’s face twists in anger and deep-seeded pain. “He was the only one I ever had on my side, the only one I ever loved, and now he’s obsessed with you.”

“He’s his own person. He’s not yours.”

“And he won’t be yours either.” Tahmoh resets his grip on Jared’s shirt and swings Jared up over his head, but then Jensen flies right at him. 

Jared falls back to the ground as Jensen’s impact forces him and Tahmoh into the next yard. Jensen towers over Tahmoh on the grass and punches Tahmoh a half dozen times in quick succession. Jared scrambles up and goes to them, shouting for Jensen to stop as sirens wail. The sounds grow closer and Jared imagines a number of police and emergency vehicles heading their way, and the last thing he wants is the authorities taking Jensen away.

“Jensen, no!” he screams when he can tell Jensen has lost all control and keeps going at Tahmoh. “You’re not like him!”

That stops Jensen with a fist in the air. Slowly, he stands and glances back to Jared, chest rising and falling quickly. 

But Tahmoh pours salt in the wound when he laughs cruelly. “It doesn’t matter when. I’m still gonna break your little toy.”

Jensen inhales sharply then stands on one of Tahmoh’s wings, grabs a few vanes, and tugs quickly. Tahmoh cries out in pain as parts of his wing now bend at a terrible angle. “Gonna be hard to get him when you’re grounded,” Jensen spits out. 

The sirens blare as police cars whip around the corner and into the alley, and Jensen is up in an instant, wings carrying him up and away. Cops spill out of cars and fire stun phasers that could never catch Jensen at the speed he’s escaping. Soon enough, he's just a black dot sprinting to the lake. 

More cops enter the yard to approach Jared and Tahmoh and take them to an ambulance and by handcuffs, respectively. The pain coursing through Jared’s body from all the injuries wars with the sharp emptiness of Jensen having flown off and abandoning Jared on the scene. But soon enough, the medics pumps drugs into Jared’s system. Strong meds and the adrenaline crash take Jared out before they make it to the hospital, and this all paints itself as a hazy dream.

Jared is groggy for the few days he spends in the hospital, yet he’s well aware that Chad, Sophia, Genevieve, and Aldis each come to visit. They dance around the reason Jared is in the hospital, but all assure him they’re happy he’s alive and only suffering a few broken ribs that can be fused together, a broken knee set with micro posts, and a cut in his palm that was easily glued closed.

Chad and Sophia help him check out of the hospital, and he’s grateful for the help yet still completely lost on what happens next. In the last few months, his entire life has been twisted around, torn apart, and left in scraps of what he’d imagined for himself. What he’d imagined for him and Jensen after they’d grown so close. 

“Want to head back to our place?” Sophia asks as she’s grabbing the one bag of his belongings. It’s exactly what he’d been wearing when he showed up, which were tattered clothes, and makes him feel even more at a loss of what to do with himself. “Could do you good to have some company? Someone to bring you hot chocolate at night.”

He smiles at her, appreciates the offer, but knows he can’t go back to things before. He’s glad to have someone here to help him out, but he isn’t ready to pretend nothing happened between his accident and now. “I’d really love my own bed,” he replies. 

“We could stay with you, if you want,” Chad offers, uncharacteristically generous. 

Jared stares at him, waits for a joke; it never comes. “No, I’m good. Thanks, though.”

“Jay, you broke half your ribcage and shattered your knee.”

He pats the knee brace with needle-thin posts set within a circle that keeps them—and the healing bones—in place. “Medical technology’s a beautiful thing.”

“So what now?” Chad asks. There’s a strange roughness to the question and Jared imagines his old friend means to question everything in the room. Including their friendship.

Jared recalls that terrible fight at Chad’s, how none of his friends stood up for him, how quickly they all vanished. He remembers that it all but threw him at Jensen, that he filled his time with learning more about the Altereds, and that from knowledge grew care and adoration. 

Still, Jared has no clue where anything will go.

“Now, I have to talk to the police.” Chad and Sophia are both discomforted by that answer. Jared shrugs and puts his hospital-issue cane to the ground so he can lean against it and ease the pressure in his knee. “I can’t escape The Man. Even with a bum leg and chest.”

“We can take you there,” Sophia replies firmly. 

They do, and they wait in the lobby as Jared goes to speak with the investigators handling the mess of what his neighborhood became. A gruff, half-bald detective leads Jared to a bare-bones interrogation room and asks a hundred questions about the fight and the wreckage. 

Finally, the detective spreads photos across the table for Jared to ID.

He recognizes each one of them as a winged Altered that has popped up in his searches for the Black Falcon. Even Jensen’s, which is partly in profile and highlights the sharp line of his jaw and the bend of his brow line when tense or worried. Something stirs in his stomach—excitement, worry, sorrow—yet he still looks at the detective with confidence. He’s just as sure when he points at the last picture and says, “This is him. This is the Black Falcon.”

The man’s mouth twitches. “And he’s the one who caused all this happen?”

“Yes, sir.”

He pushes the picture closer to Jared. “You know his name?”

A prickle of fear creeps up the back of his neck, but he’s sure that this is what needs to be done. It may not be the right thing, but it’s what fits in Jared’s story. “Tahmoh Penikett.”

It takes another two weeks for the rib fusion and knee brace to do its magic. Jared can’t go many places beyond his front porch or the back yard, so there’s a part of him that’s not surprised he never sees Jensen. Yet, he always looks for him to appear, whether in the sky or at his house.

Jared tries to convince himself that it’s okay. Even when every ounce of his being says it’s not. 

So when he’s well enough to get around, he goes up to the North Side and visits Sheppard. 

He has no fancy knock or password; he simply says his name to get the door open.

“I shouldn’t be surprised you’re here,” the man says by way of greeting. 

“Can I come in?” Jared asks kindly.

Sheppard motions him inside and Jared heads straight for the compu-screen. He’s uncertain what he’s looking at, but he searches every web screen for something that screams Jensen. “That was quite a ruckus you boys caused. Surprised you weren’t kicked out of the neighborhood.”

“They’re certainly trying.” He faces Sheppard and quickly asks, “Have you heard from him?”

“Your darling Jensen? Sadly, I haven’t. Seems that bird flew the coop.”

“Jensen said you could track him.”

“Oh, he did now?” Sheppard pours two glasses of whiskey and offers one to Jared, which goes untouched. “What all did our favorite falcon tell you?”

“That you were going to help reconfigure his chip.”

“And what if I did?” he asks before taking a long sip from his glass.

“If you did,” Jared starts then clears his throat, unsure what kind of help Sheppard can offer him. “Could you still find him?”

“ _If_ someone were able to help an Altered escape his registered area … it _might_ be possible to locate him once again.”

“Can you do that?”

Sheppard drinks again then slowly nods. “I can. But the first question is will I?”

“And the second question?”

“Why should I?”

Jared takes a deep breath, feels a twinge of pain in his left side where the ribs have only just neatly fused back together. He glances again at the screen and it’s all gibberish to him, yet he thinks it could be everything. “Because I need to see him.”

“You do now?”

“He saved my life … twice.”

“I’m well aware. But I’m sure you’re also aware that there are questions of legality in doing such a thing. If I knew the whereabouts of a felon, especially an _Altered_ felon, I would be required to report them to the police.”

Jared stands firm and presses further. “And I’m sure the cops would have questions for the man who can reprogram a chip, allowing that felon to escape.”

Sheppard all but gulps the rest of his whiskey and clears his throat. He sets the glass down to his desk, rather hard. “You have quite a fierce jab there, my boy.”

“Just tell me,” he orders. “Tell me where Jensen is.” It’s a long standoff of them watching one another and eventually, Jared can feel his eyes water and his throat goes dry. “Please. I want to see him.”

Turning to the desk, Sheppard sighs. “Your little crush is all sorts of adorable, but I haven’t the time.”

Jared turns him around by the shoulders and looks him straight in the eye. “I can pay you.”

That seems to get the man’s attention for a moment. Then he sobers up and shakes his head. “And what if he doesn’t want to be found?”

It’s a kick to the gut, a mind-blowing realization that Jensen escaped and wants nothing to do with this city, or Jared, anymore. His breathing is harsh and his eyes are filling with fresh tears that threaten to fall. “Then tell me that he’s okay. Tell me he’s safe and I will leave here forgetting that I know all of this exists.”

Sheppard watches Jared while uncomfortable seconds tick by. “Well, now,” he says with a smirk, “this is a whole different situation than I had gathered, isn’t it?”

Jared slowly nods, and Sheppard runs his fingers over his tablet to bring a new web portal to the front of the screen. It’s a map of the U.S. with thousands of dots in a variety of colors scattered across it. Sheppard eyes Jared before tapping out a few numbers on a keypad and the screen narrows down to the east coast of Lake Michigan. It continues to zoom in until a single green dot blinks. 

“Looks like your boyfriend is in Saint Joseph, Michigan.”

Jared’s heart races and his breathing catches. “How long has he been there?”

Another few screen swipes and a daily log pops up. “A couple weeks now.”

He memorizes the roads in the vicinity of the dot then races to the door.

“What about my money?”

“I’ll transfer it immediately.”

“How can I be so sure?” Sheppard shouts.

Jared smiles just before opening the door. “I work at a Credit Union.”

“Well, isn’t that convenient.”

“Not before today.”

He prays for his car to survive the three-hour drive to Saint Joseph, fighting fog and rain that covers the coast with a troublesome storm. The rain lets up as he arrives to the destination—a seemingly forgotten Amtrak rail station on a tiny peninsula that juts into the lake—but the ground is riddled with puddles and the fog remains.

Inside, tiles are cracked and rafters overhead are peeling white paint to give way to rotting wood. The startling chill in the air makes the hairs on Jared’s arms stand upright, and he has a hard time imagining this is where Jensen now spends his time.

Jared’s every step echoes through the waiting room and his shadow casts itself on dirty walls as he walks throughout the space in search of Jensen. He checks back rooms and the bathrooms, even the stalls, but doesn’t find any sign of habitation until he reaches the maintenance room. Blankets are laid out in the corner as a make-shift bed, and a few changes of clothes are gathered in another corner. The station remains quiet, so Jared goes outside to collect his thoughts.

The building stands a block or so from the coast, but the breezes off the lake still hit him. He looks in every direction trying to think of where next to search for Jensen in this quiet lakeside town. 

Turns out, he doesn’t need to, because there’s a dark figure far out above the water that is now coming towards him. Jared can make out the wing span and the long lines of Jensen’s legs, and he smiles with heavy, excited breathing at the chance to finally see Jensen again.

Jensen flies closer, coming in fast and skidding to a stop on the street in front of the station. Just as Jared says, “Hi,” Jensen scowls.

“What are you doing here?”

“Good to see you, too,” Jared says with a nervous laugh.

“What are you doing here?” Jensen repeats, voice tight. 

“I wanted to see you.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” he insists, then asks, “how did you find me?”

“Sheppard.”

Jensen huffs and turns away from Jared. “I hope you can get a refund.”

Jared steps closer then halts when Jensen spins back to him with a flat look. “I just thought—”

“No, you didn’t think. Because if you did, you’d realize how dangerous it is for you to be here.”

“Dangerous how?”

Jensen laughs roughly. “Are you serious? Do you not remember what happened?”

“Like I could forget?” he shoots back. Anger boils to the surface and he tightens his hands in fists, ready to fight after all he’d done to get here. “Did you?”

They watch one another for some time until Jensen admits, “Of course not.”

A small flash of relief settles the tension in his shoulders. “Good.”

“Are you okay?”

“I’m up and walking.” Jared goes on to ask, “Are you?”

He shrugs awkwardly before rolling his eyes. “It’s a little cold so close to the lake, but I get by.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

Jensen nods then frowns. “Seriously, Jared, you shouldn’t be here.”

“Sheppard said you didn’t want to be found. But I guess I wanted to see you more.”

“I hope it didn’t cost you too much.”

“It was worth it,” Jared insists. 

Jensen nods once more then points at the station. “Maybe we should go inside?”

“Sure,” he agrees while stomping down his excitement that Jensen’s anger is subsiding. Inside, they roam the waiting area in uncomfortable silence. Jared tries his best to acknowledge their surroundings as easily as possible. “It’s a nice area. It seems like it works for you.”

“It’s good enough for now.”

“Until what?”

Jensen shrugs and looks at the front windows as if seeing something beyond the street outside. “It was far enough away, and small enough, I figured I’d go unnoticed for a little while. And I could cross the lake and still see the city. I don’t know what I’m really waiting for.”

“Maybe for it to be safe?” he suggests as he nears Jensen.

“Is it?”

“As safe as it’s gonna be.” Jensen turns to him and Jared wants to reach out and touch him, but he can sense the anxiety Jensen now carries with him over all that happened on the other side of the water. “Tahmoh is locked up. He’ll be there for a long time, decades probably.”

“Really?”

Jared nods with a smirk. “Yeah, the city’s not going to let the Black Falcon go after he terrorized the city for the last few years.”

“You didn’t,” Jensen asks. He sounds surprised yet pleased. “Did you?”

“I did. To protect us both.”

Finally, Jensen’s hard front vanishes. He frowns and closes his eyes in pain. “God, Jared, I never wanted any of this to happen to you.”

“I know.” Jared closes the gap between them and dares to touch Jensen’s hand. “I never wanted this for you, either.”

Jensen’s hand closes around Jared’s and he pulls Jared closer. His eyes open brilliantly wide, searching Jared’s face. “Living in a train station isn’t luxurious?” he jokes. 

Jared laughs. “Probably better than a motor plant. And it’s a fresh start.”

“Not yet.”

“But soon.”

“Yeah,” Jensen admits then kisses Jared. It’s brief, yet warm and filled with enough emotions to transplant Jared back over a month ago when flying with Jensen was the most dramatic thing in his life. “Soon.”

There is nothing easy about sleeping on a floor padded with worn-out blankets, but waking up next to Jensen makes it more than bearable. Especially when Jensen’s eyes meet his as soon as they’re both awake.

“There’s something I have to do,” Jensen says softly. “And I need your help with it.”

Jared agrees before hearing the terms.

He’s quite leery of the idea, though, when Jensen comes out of the old break room with a knife and towels. “My chip, it’s in my shoulder.”

“Okay?” Jared asks warily.

“I want you to take it out.” Before Jared can question it, Jensen plows on. “I don’t want anyone to be able to find me anymore.”

He is certain he’d do anything for Jensen after he’s saved Jared’s life twice. This is the best payment he can make. “Okay.”

It takes a strong disposition to handle the blood and the painful grunts Jensen releases as Jared cuts through the skin. Jared won’t give up and digs into the wound until he comes up with a microchip so tiny it could fit inside a pebble. 

Jensen flies them out to the beach and Jared is struck by how quiet it is out here. The waves lightly break at the sand, but it’s them who are completely silent as Jensen turns the chip over in his palm. “I never thought it was that bad of a thing, to be chipped. I thought it was one piece of the life that I had to face once I was altered.”

Jared remains still as he watches Jensen contemplate the levity of the moment. 

“Tahmoh always thought I was too naïve about the whole system. I guess I was hopeful things would turn out okay after they started so rough.”

When Jensen looks at him, Jared feels the need to break the tension. “I wouldn’t ever call you naïve.”

Jensen smiles. “That was long before we met.”

“Things are different now,” Jared offers in comfort. “You’re different now. And that’s okay.”

With a nod, Jensen holds his palm up then closes it around the chip. A second later, he tosses it into the water and it’s gone forever with the tide.

“Feels like just another escape.” Jensen murmurs. “But I think I need that.”

Jared opens and closes his mouth a few times before gathering the right emotions that are all flooding his system. They all seem dead wrong and terrible to express. “An escape to where?”

“You once said New York.” 

Jared frowns and fights the words to convince Jensen to stay.

“After that, we can head out on our own.”

Once Jared gathers the implications of _we_ , his system is firing a new set of emotions. Elation, relief, love. They all mix to warm his body from the inside out. It all makes perfect sense now, with Jensen unable to return to Chicago and Jared unable to stay at his house after all that’s happened.

Jensen’s smile fades away in Jared’s silence. “So, what do you think?” he asks, lacking any confidence or grace. “You, me, and the Big Apple?”

“It probably looks a lot like Chicago,” Jared points out, playfully dragging the moment as far as possible.

“Yeah, but without Tahmoh in the rear view mirror. Mark says there are some communities growing out there, better places to be welcomed.”

“I don’t really care what Mark says,” he says firmly. And he means it, because his decision is not based on the Black Falcon’s reputation, Mark’s opinions, or even their past with Tahmoh. It is made based on Jensen. “I’ll go no matter what.”

Immediately, Jensen lights up. “Really?”

“Yeah, of course.” Jared laughs and shifts closer to Jensen. “What am I gonna do here? Live in the shadows and go back to the Credit Union?”

“It’d probably be terribly boring.”

“Then we’re in agreement.” He leans in to kiss Jensen in a nice press of lips, warm and soft and together. “So,” Jared prompts, “The Big Apple.”

“The Empire State.”

Jared smiles and squeezes Jensen’s hand. “Can’t wait.”

**Author's Note:**

> Be sure to visit [dollarformyname's](http://dollarformyname.livejournal.com/) [ART POST](http://dollarformyname.livejournal.com/64905.html).


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